


Put Walk Among Us On and Turn it Up

by essieincinci



Series: No Finer Mess To Be Found [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Anxiety, Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Depression, Drinking, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essieincinci/pseuds/essieincinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky was sixteen and drunk for the first time (on schnapps, dear god, not that he ever admits that part) he let his friend’s greaseball older brother talk him into a homemade stab-n-stick that is just… awful. He walks into the shop from the business card late at night, and a little guy in a too-big hoodie and skinny jeans looks up from the counter. </p><p>The Chubby!Punk!Bucky meets Tiny!TattooArtist!Steve AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Walk Among Us On and Turn it Up

**Author's Note:**

> This story wouldn't be possible without an incredible beta by [alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody](http://alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com/), who made this story a bajillion times better, and [iwritetheweirdstuff](http://iwritetheweirdstuff.tumblr.com/), for throwing out the headcanons in the first place.
> 
> Title from We've Had Enough by Alkaline Trio

Bucky came back broken. They used words like _PTSD_ and _trauma_ and _depressed_ , and Bucky’s self-aware enough to know they’re not wrong. But they’re not entirely right, either. Bucky’s just awake now, it seems, awake and aware of how he’s been used in the world. He may have helped shape history, maybe, all that stuff the recruiters sold him when he signed up, but shape it into what? Bucky doesn’t know and isn't so sure he cares, but he doesn’t like the path the question set him on.

What he does know is that he just doesn’t have the fucks to give anymore about doing anything that doesn’t bring him joy. Classified ops do not bring him joy. Freezing his ass off waiting around on missions does not bring him joy. Sit-ups and squats and cheat days and lite beer and MREs do not bring him joy.

So fuck that, fuck them, pass the cupcakes and Jack, thanks.

He’s spent a lot of his nights wandering since he came back stateside, hitting up all-night food trucks and finding himself trailing potential marks and assessing threat levels without even realizing it. When he does, he shakes his head and follows the sound of a pounding bass line, hoping to maybe clear his head in the storied tradition of generations of returned soldiers: by getting blackout drunk.

Turns out the nearest bar featured live music, something loud and angry and sweaty and a little bit mean. Bucky loved it. He maintained a pleasant beer buzz, watched the crowd lightly, and by the end of the night, he’d been actually smiling, standing at the edge of the circle while kids threw themselves around as if they had nothing left to lose.

* * *

Bucky gets a list of apartments from the bulletin board at his assigned therapist’s office, part of his Welcome Back to The Real World, Sorry We Fucked Up Your Life retirement package. He ends up subletting from a nice but absent-sounding woman who is out of the country for the spring, on tour along with her DJ boyfriend. When Bucky asks about the rental rate, she starts yelling at someone named Darcy to adjust the differential on the something something and then she hangs up.

Three days later he picks up the key at his therapy appointment, though, so he guesses he can move in.

When he settles into the on-the-edge-of-gentrification neighborhood he can call home now, his nightly walks don’t stop, though they stop resembling patrols quite as much and become more casual. More often than not he ends up in the club, sees the same group of faces most nights.

But it’s Natasha and Clint that he really meets first.

He’s had a good run of days, aside from the not-sleeping, and he’s sick of takeout - the Chinese place just answers his calls, “The usual?” at this point, and that makes him frown at the phone - so he hangs up and heads out to a diner. He’s halfway through a congratulatory club sandwich when a busboy drops a full dish bin and suddenly he’s _back there_ and the next thing he knows he’s staring at a redhead from under the table, brandishing a butter knife and forcing himself to stop reciting his serial number.

The redhead’s sitting cross-legged on the diner floor, well out of reach, but easy to see, hands splayed wide in front of her.

“Hi. I’m Natasha. You’re safe. It’s Tuesday afternoon and you’re safe.” She’s saying these things over and over, softly, and Bucky thinks maybe he can believe her. It sounds about right. In the rational part of his brain, he's pretty sure she wouldn't have reason to lie to him. Not about the time and date anyway.

Bucky blinks and lowers the knife slightly.

“Ah, there you are. I’m Natasha. You’re safe. It’d be nice if you wanted to put the knife down, because you’re safe, but you can do that if and when you want to. Do you want to tell me your name?”

Bucky swallows. “Sergeant James Barnes.” He shakes his head. "No, that isn’t right." He does want to tell her his name, though. Not telling anyone anything - look where that attitude got him. Hiding under a seventy-year-old booth in some random diner at ass o’clock in the morning with some redheaded trauma expert trying to stop him from filleting her or himself with a damn butter knife.

“James? You’re safe, okay?”

Bucky nods, suspiciously.

“Say it back to me, James. You’re safe.”

“I’m.” Bucky coughs. “I’m safe.”

“Good. Would you like to get off the floor?”

“No.” Bucky starts shaking. Off the floor would be bad. Windows everywhere, sight lines in from all angles, and while he can make a weapon out of hundreds of the items within reach, something in his brain insists on screaming at him that this is not how normal people - civilians, targets - think in public.

“That’s fine. You take your time, then. But tell me again, James."

"Bucky," he interrupts her.

"What?"

"Call me Bucky. 'S my name."

"You are safe, Bucky."

“I’m safe.” He nods. He might even start to believe her.

* * *

Doc Thoyer is a wiry old white guy with white hair in a white office and Bucky hates him. He’s not a real doctor, just a peer counselor or some distinction Bucky doesn’t know and doesn’t care about, because this is really only somewhat voluntary, and who fucking cares anyway. Bucky calls him Doc Thoyer mostly to get on his nerves. Bucky hates everything about him, except his service record. He has to respect anyone who managed to save hostages as well as his entire unit with no casualties. That’s hard to do.

Bucky admits he might sometimes need to talk to someone, and when he’s feeling generous, he can see that Thoyer would be good for a lot of vets. He’s a straight talker; he’s rigid and stern and a lot like some of the officers Bucky met when he was in the service. Some guys coming out might need someone like that in their lives. Bucky, on the other hand, left any of that kind of need in a ... well, in the past. This guy just doesn’t get it, though. He’s old guard and doesn’t understand Bucky, doesn’t seem to want to try, and keeps trying to bring everything down to Bucky’s lack of routine.

“Structure is good for men like us, Mr. Barnes.” He keeps referring to him as _Mister_ Barnes, as if Bucky doesn’t know damn well the army wants nothing to do with him, nor he it.

“Men like us,” Bucky repeats, flatly. They are not the same. They both know that, but that doesn’t stop this jackass from trying to squeeze Bucky back into that box. Once a soldier always a soldier. Thoyer’s one of those, always looking for mission accomplished. That’s all this guy’s after. Bucky spends the rest of their first session wondering how he got to be a therapist or peer counselor or whatever in the first place and refusing to speak.

* * *

Natasha and her friend Clint put up with him being a hermit for exactly two weeks after the diner incident. To the hour. At that point, they show up at his basement apartment together to drag his ass out of his sweatpants and into the shower.

“We’re going out.”

Bucky snorts. “I’m not so good with _out_ , in case you failed to notice.”

“You’re not now. But you will be,” Clint insists. Bucky doesn’t remember Clint’s freakout in the diner, too busy with his own, but Clint’s told him about it since. Something about the sound, the pitch, and the frequency of the crashing of the dish bin being too similar to nightmares they both have. Bucky’s seen how Clint never enters a room without checking for the exits, and how he won’t put his back to a window if no one he trusts is facing him. 

Bucky heaves a sigh, but Natasha pokes the pointy toe of her boot into Bucky’s calf until he gets up. “Shower. Get dressed. We’ll be here. Don’t make us wait too long.”

He obediently showers, scrubbing at his left arm without looking at it. He always knew injury was a risk of the job, practically a fact of the job in Spec Ops. It was what happened after the arm that had him hiding in his apartment these nights. When he tries to get dressed, long-sleeved button-up to cover his arm and dark jeans, he realizes that none of it fits comfortably anymore. He'd been wearing sweatpants for ... a while now. He stands up straighter, adjusts his grip, and pulls, getting the jeans to close. The shirt puckers a little around the buttons before he plucks at it ineffectively. He shrugs and leaves the room.

This night is not looking up.

But he owes Natasha and Clint. He owes them a lot, so he can grit through it.

* * *

Natasha and Clint bring Bucky to the same club he’s been haunting. Turns out they’re friends with the owner, regular patrons and sometime performers. Natasha’s band plays there on ocassion; Clint’s boyfriend scouts talent there.

Tonight, though, it’s just a group of guys casually playing cover songs, a good party rock mix of upbeat danceable classics with a bent toward heavy rock. Clint bets Bucky he can’t match Natasha shot for shot, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. Natasha is a beautiful, intimidating woman, but she is not what anyone could accurately call _large in stature_. Bucky, on the other hand, _is_.

He realizes his mistake when Clint comes back from the bar with a tray full of shots. It’s just the two of them drinking; Clint’s their driver.

“Promised the boyfriend I wouldn’t drink tonight.”

“Did you promise him you’d set me up with a sucker’s bet, too?”

“Nah, he knew that was a given.”

Bucky concedes defeat when he’s feeling drunk enough to actually _want_ to go dance. He’s been taught how to handle himself in a ballroom, and he’s picked up some moves in the pit recently, but the in-between type of dancing, the kind people do in situations like this, for fun, Bucky’s never been great at it.

Clint grabs his hand and leads him out to the dance floor anyway. “The good news is, you’re drunk enough not to care!”

Clint dances with Bucky for a while, then turns away to make his rounds through the club, dancing up on half the people in the room, letting the other half come to him. He’s clearly in his element, and Bucky wonders how serious the boyfriend Clint claims to have really is. He isn’t sure he’d want to let someone like Clint go off on his own like this. Not when he could be enjoying the show, or the attention, himself.

Bucky scans the room until he spots a guy just close enough to his type to work. On the shorter side, slim-built, old eyes and a quick smile. Bucky makes his way over, and the guy sizes him up, leans into him. Bucky reaches around, puts his hand just on the guy’s hip and the guy turns back into Bucky. He reaches his arm up and hooks it around Bucky’s neck and grinds back.

Bucky stills for just a moment, because he’s feeling some response and this is new. This is very new. He hasn’t had much to do with his dick since his accident, and he was pretty sure his dick was content to return the favor pretty much forever. The doctors said it might happen for a while, and they could help if he wanted, but he hadn’t felt the need to bother.

Except now, with this guy’s ass rubbing against his groin and feeling something good, Bucky lets out a laugh and grabs the guy’s hip on the other side, too, and forgets that he can’t dance. They carry on like that for two more songs, and then the guy gets whisked away by a strawberry blonde and a curly-haired guy who looks like he hadn’t been aware this was a club and wandered in by mistake. Bucky takes it as a sign and heads back to the table to find Natasha and Clint watching him fondly.

“Have fun?”

“Yeah, that was all right.” Bucky clinks his bottle against Tasha’s water and Clint’s club soda, then drains it.

“Get his number?” Clint asks.

“Nah, I prefer blonds.” He belches. “Oops.”

“Probably a good thing,” Clint laughs. “Stark’s hands are pretty full already.”

* * *

Bucky meets Sam the day he cries and breaks up with his therapist. Well, he fires the guy, or the guy fires him, but either way they agree to see other people, so.

“I see you’ve fallen behind on your PT, Mr. Barnes,” Thoyer says to him at the beginning of their fourth session.

Bucky looks down at the gut he’s now sporting. He shrugs. Thoyer _tsks_ and sits behind his desk, posture impeccable, making it obvious that he could drop and give him twenty and not even break a sweat.

“How would you say you are coping today?” Thoyer opens his file, disappointment evident in his voice.

Bucky usually says the minimum to get by, agreeing to try harder for the next week, and then going home to eat too much takeout and convince Natasha and Clint that he’s _fine_ , really, just tired, maybe he’s got mono. But after the night at the club he’s about to burst with actually feeling happy. He’d forgotten that _happy_ was different from _not sad_. He makes the mistake of not filtering his words, stupid of him really, it’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with. He mentions grinding up on some guy and getting hard, fucking _finally_ , so relieved he’s actually able to get it up that he almost doesn’t notice Thoyer stiffen until he leans back, eyes no longer disappointed, but closed off, harder.

But he does see, reviews what he said and _fuck_. It may be legal for him to be a gay ex-soldier, but _legal_ doesn’t make it _okay_. Thoyer tries to cover with a “hmm” and making it about Bucky’s reawakened dick and substandard eating habits, but Bucky saw, and that’s the end of that bout of happiness. About nine hours. New personal record.

Thoyer calls it quits at the twenty-seven minute mark, after asking about Bucky’s STI screenings and whether he’s taking unacceptable risks, and Bucky’s hands are shaking so hard from holding his anger in that he’s sitting on them to keep them from view. Bucky walks stiffly to the door and doesn’t reach to shake Thoyer’s hand.

“I think we can both agree it might be better for you to start working with one of my colleagues, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think we can both agree on jack shit all else, so yeah.” Bucky’s done. He’s tired and hungry and he wants to hit something, anything. If this guy says one more word, it’s going to be him. He’s also about ready to cry with how unfair it all is, this jackass stealing his good mood when he’s supposed to be helping him, and how childish that thought makes him feel, and how underwater and far away everything feels compared to the night before, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to cry in Thoyer's office, in front of him.

He makes it to the little two-stall bathroom off the lobby before he falls apart, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep himself from ripping the room the dangerous little pieces, pieces he could so easily use to show Thoyer how much _routine_ and _training_ and _potential_ means to him now.

He’s leaning over the sink, splashing water on his blotchy face when the door opens. Some guy walks in and says “Good, you’re still here. Fuck Thoyer, all right? Guy’s worse than the food here and this is a government-run facility. I’m Sam, and if it’s okay with you, I’m taking over your case.”

* * *

One thing Thoyer was right about is that Bucky will always be a soldier. He’s constantly scanning for threats, assessing. Usually he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, it’s such an ingrained habit. He’s always been observant and had an eye for trouble, both causing it and avoiding it, and figuring out which was the winning side. It serves him well on the streets, in the club, in the pit.

Bucky doesn’t recognize the guy when he sidles up to him and waves the bartender over to buy Bucky a drink.

“You’ve been here a lot.”

“Is that like ‘come here often’? Because it needs some work.” Bucky accepts the beer, takes a long swig, carefully avoiding the new ring hanging from his still-slightly-tender bottom lip.

“No. Could be. I actually wanted to offer you a job.”

Bucky looks the guy up and down, and that’s when he recognizes him as the dick guy. Jesus, he’s being propositioned by someone he’s nicknamed ‘ _the dick guy_.’ “Not interested.”

The guy laughs. “Not what I had in mind, but trust me, if I did, you’d be interested. I need a bouncer. Mine fucked off for the summer to go DJ on a festival tour,” he makes a face that pretty well sums up his feelings on D&B.

“This is your club?”

“I have my fingers in a lot of pies,” the guy nods. "Tony Stark." He doesn't offer his hand.

“I’ll just bet you do.”

“What do you say? Want a chance to bust some heads for a living?”

Bucky pales, starts shaking.

“Shit, no, okay, not a head buster. Don’t puke, please don't puke. The staff hates when they have to clean puke.”

* * *

With Tony come Bruce (the lost-looking guy) and Pepper (the strawberry blonde), and apparently Tony’s fucking both of them. Props to Tony on that one because _hot damn_. Natasha and Clint finally introduce Bucky to Clint’s boyfriend Coulson, who somehow knows Thoyer and agrees with Sam that he needs removed from his position. Coulson says it as if he has a way of making it happen. Coulson is a little intimidating, in a quietly competent way.

Apparently, Clint has a type.

Pretty soon, Bucky has a group of friends: “a support system,” Sam says. Bucky frowns and Sam follows with a grin, knowing how much Bucky hates the therapy jargon bullshit. He’s got a therapist who is actually helping him, he’s sleeping a little better, exhausted on hard music rather than hard liquor more often than not. He still has his bad days, and they still outnumber the good, but Sam says he’s making progress.

They’re back at Stark’s waiting on Natasha’s band to hit the stage. Clint’s filling in tonight; turns out the chick usually on keys is the infamous Darcy-with-the-differential he’s subletting from. Bucky’s a little afraid he’s maybe in a coma given the way everyone he meets seems to be connected to everyone else he meets these days. He knows stuff that would make even the most wackadoo conspiracy theorist shit his pants, so he’s a little uncomfortable with the level of coincidence he’s dealing with. Sam shrugs and tells him to chalk it up to the fact that the scene is small and incestuous.

Bucky’s table-riding tonight with Sam, just not feeling it enough to venture out into the club at large. Sam lets him get away with not having set appointments in office as long as they spend three hours a week together doing something and as long as Bucky doesn’t back out on those plans without a valid excuse. Apparently, “I don’t know” is not a valid excuse in this case. Bucky doesn’t know why; it’s worked in the past.

Sam keeps glancing over at him, though, and while he’s better at subtlety than most, Bucky’s trained for this pretty damn intensely, so he catches him. “Out with it,” he sighs.

“Just making sure you’re really okay. You didn’t want to come out tonight, you’re watching drinks and purses here at the table. Your hair’s getting pretty shaggy and, well, man, you’ve packed on more than a few. I’ve seen your file, I know how you looked when you were discharged. Wanna make sure you’re not giving up on me.“

Bucky laughs. “Giving up? This isn’t giving up.” He chugs the rest of his beer and burps softly. “No way, man, just one of those days. I’m telling you, I’m good. I’ve finally found myself.” He makes finger quotes around the end of his sentence, but he means it, too.

Sam looks down at Bucky’s gut. “Looks like you’ve found kind of a lot of yourself.”

“More of me to love?” Bucky shrugs and Sam snorts. “Seriously, I’m good. Even with this I bet I’m still in better shape than you.”

Strike Team Delta hits the stage then with a squeal of feedback and a roar from Natasha while Bucky and Sam hash out the details of a bet: Bucky keeps up with Sam on his run in the morning, Sam buys breakfast after one of their appointments each week.

* * *

 

Damn, free pancakes are delicious.

* * *

 

Clint greets Bucky with his customary “Table Man!” and Coulson makes him stand in the corner for five minutes, even though Bucky insists he’s fine with the nickname.

Bucky tries to defend Clint: “It’s kinda a fractured fairy-tale meet-cute we had, though, Coulson,” but given the way Clint bounces off to the corner with a grin and a “yes, sir!” Bucky’s pretty sure Clint neither wants nor needs defending.

“He was warned to behave,” Coulson says mildly. “He knows the rules.”

“So it’s ... like that? The two of you?” Bucky asks, just getting the lay of the land. Assuming makes an ass, as they say, and Bucky likes these people. He does not want to run them off with a case of Foot In Mouth disease.

“Mm,” Coulson nods once, not giving anything away.

“Cool. You seem to have him pretty firmly in hand.” Bucky nods back, takes a swig from his beer. “Natasha too?”

Coulson smiles, relaxing. “No.”

Bucky can tell there’s a story there, but he’s obviously not getting it tonight.

“And you?” Coulson continues.

“Strictly a tourist in my youth,” Bucky admits. “Hit up all the popular destinations: silk ties as blindfolds, a little light spanking, the classic whipped cream bikini. Decided it’s not for me. Well, that last one's not too bad. But hey, whatever kinks your hose, my man.”

* * *

The bass pounds and the pit is raging and Clint slams into Bucky again and again. Bucky notices the tattoo starting at the back of Clint’s neck before it disappears down into his shirt. In the flashing lights from the stage it looks new. Even still scabbed in places, it’s beautiful.

“Nice ink,” Bucky shouts, pointing to the back of his own neck and then to Clint’s. Clint points toward the back of the club and Bucky follows him, squeezing out of the pit and past the edge-huggers, the ones too exhausted or too scared to jump all the way in.

Clint leads them to the back door, past Tony's office with a quick wave and nod to Bruce. Outside, Bucky lights a smoke. It’s an infrequent indulgence, but sometimes it helps calm his nerves (Sam says when he’s ready they’ll work on quitting, but agrees now is not the time and the pressure of failing is probably worth waiting out). Bucky gently shakes the pack at Clint, who declines.

“Coulson’d be mad. Real mad, not fun mad.” Clint makes a face, mostly fond and a little confused. “He says I have impulse control issues and I’m allowed one vice. I chose caffeine.”

Bucky nods. He can see that Clint is likely an ‘act first, think never’ kind of guy.

Clint reaches back and slaps between his shoulder blades while the bassline from inside fades out and kids, soaked in sweat and beer, start pouring out the front doors. “I hate the itching part. Worth it in the end, but still.”

“Can I see it? In the light, I mean?”

Clint turns in the bright light of the streetlight in the alley, lifting his shirt off so Bucky can see his back. Bucky runs the first two fingers of his free hand lightly across the work. It’s an archery bow, steampunk-ish and full of gears, beautifully detailed and shaded, like someone left it resting on Clint’s back and just hasn’t come back for it yet.

“Pretty sweet, right? Guy I know does shit like this all day. He did the shirts for Tash and a lot of the cover art for Coulson’s baby bands. Steve?” Clint looks back over his shoulder questioningly.

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t know him.”

“How is that possible? You know all of us. Oh, you should meet him!” Clint digs around in his pockets. “Gotta get Coulson, he’s got a business card.”

Bucky flicks his butt into the plastic bucket near the doorway that serves as a “we didn’t know people were using it for _smoking_ , my goodness, Mr. Health Officer” ashtray while Clint tugs his shirt back into place and heads inside.

“Boss!” Clint yells at Coulson.

Coulson wrinkles his nose and raises one eyebrow.

Clint immediately backpedals, “Wasn’t me, I swear. All him.”

Bucky confirms, “All me.”

“Good boy,” Coulson murmurs toward Clint, whose face lights up like a fucking firework. Bucky feels a tightening in his chest, part relief, part jealousy, part comfort that at least these two have something good in their lives.

“Sir, give Table- _Bucky_ one of Steve’s cards. Please. They haven’t met yet.”

Coulson looks surprised for a moment, then reaches into his wallet. “Interesting.”

* * *

When Bucky was sixteen and drunk for the first time (on schnapps, dear god, not that he ever admits that part) he let his friend’s greaseball older brother talk him into a homemade stab-n-stick that is just… awful. He managed to hide it for about six weeks, but then he slipped up and his mom cried and that made him cry and he hated the thing, but he never made the time to go get it fixed. Then, the accident happened, and for a long time, there didn't seem to be much of a point. the tattoo had been rendered even more unrecognizable by the scarring. But from the moment he saw Clint's ink, he couldn't shake the idea of finally fixing it.

He walks into the shop from the business card late at night, and a little guy in a too-big hoodie and skinny jeans looks up from the counter.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” He’s got this surprisingly deep voice, floppy hair he brushes out of his eyes, ink stained fingers, and the only word Bucky can think of for his half-smile is ‘ _adorable_.’ “It’s too late for a tattoo tonight, but if you know what you want, we can make an appointment for later?”

Bucky unroots himself from the spot just inside the door and self-consciously tugs at the puckered buttons on his shirt, hoping they don’t look pulled as tight as they feel. He did not get dressed with meeting this guy in mind.

“Uh, yeah, I kinda need a cover-up.” Bucky rolls up his shirt sleeve and pushes it up past his elbow, giving up trying to hide the scars running down his left arm, and turning the inside of his arm up so the guy can see what's left of his tattoo. “But there’s a lot of scarring, too, so, I really don’t even know if it’s possible. Or worth it. Are you Steve? Clint sent me, said I should talk to a Steve.”

“That’s me.” Steve nods absently, already reaching out toward the tattoo, turning Bucky’s arm this way and that. “Is that supposed to be … a giraffe? With a halo?”

“No, it’s. Look, I just need a cover-up, okay,” Bucky says, embarrassed. “Gimme a nautical star or something quick and easy. Something the scars won’t get in the way of.”

Steve drops his arm and looks into Bucky’s eyes intently. “Clint. Did not send you. To me. _For flash_.” Steve rummages around in the drawer under the counter and comes back up with a fine-point Sharpie, grabs Bucky’s arm and twelve minutes of muttering and drawing later there’s this beautiful robot-type arm emerging that somehow incorporates the scars and “it’s just outlines, just ideas,” Steve’s murmuring.

It’s amazing and Bucky’s a bit in love with this little guy.

Fuck.

* * *

Bucky takes to spending a lot of time at the shop. He’s friendly and he tries to help out when he can, getting to know Steve and his friend Peggy and trying to quash this stupid little crush he’s developing on Steve. At first it’s not too bad, because he spends three whole days thinking Steve and Peggy are an item.

Until Peggy’s girlfriend Maria comes to pick her up for swing dancing, dapper as all hell, and Steve waves them off and doesn’t look like he’s pining or wistful or anything that would indicate latent romantic feelings for her.

Damn.

It's harder after that, because he gets it into his head that he might just have a shot with Steve. Bucky hasn’t actually seen Steve hit on any guys, or even really express any interest in guys, but he hasn’t seen him hit on or express interest in any girls, either. Bucky’s starting to wonder if maybe Steve’s just not into anyone at all when Clint (thankfully) runs his big mouth and says something about Steve bruising when guys fuck him. Bucky is sure of the phrasing, _when guys fuck him_.

Steve blushes so pretty, ducks his head and mumbles, “shut up” to Clint, but he doesn’t deny it.

Bucky’s stuck halfway between wanting to kill anyone who ever bruised Steve like that and really, _really_ wanting to be the one to bruise Steve like that.

The conversation around him devolves into Clint and Tony trying to one up each other in the Who Got Hurt Worse During Sex game, but Tony disqualifies Clint after the third “Coulson and his belt” story.

* * *

Sometimes, Bucky’s hands shake. There’s so far nothing that _always_ triggers him, but odd things at odd times will do it. The way the light glints off a car. Sudden, high pitched noises. The infamous dish bin. A certain smell. Sometimes, they just shake on their own, for no discernable reason, and those are the times that piss Bucky off the most. At least the times he’s triggered give him a _reason_.

Bucky’s trying to sort a shipment of seamless hoops that somehow got all mixed up in the box, 18 gauges with the 16 gauges with the 14 gauges. But his fucking hands won’t stop shaking and he can’t breathe and they won't stop and he can't _breathe_. He fists his hands in his hair and tugs, trying to just calm down, to be normal, when Steve steps into the doorway.

“Bucky? I’m going to come in, okay? Can I come closer?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, I’m _fine_ , I’m fine,” Bucky grits out, pressing his hands hard against the countertop, willing them to just _stop_ already.

“Yeah, say it again,” Steve says from across the counter.

“Hey, fuck you.”

“No, I mean it.” Steve reaches out, settles his hands on Bucky’s hunched shoulders. “Say it again. You’re fine.”

“I am.”

“I know. Say it for me.”

“I’m fine.” Bucky takes a deep breath, finally able to do so.  

“Yeah, you are. Say it again.” Steve slides his hands down Bucky’s arms, moving to hold Bucky’s left hand in both his own and starts massaging little circles with his thumbs.

“I’m fine.”

“This okay?”

Bucky nods jerkily.

“Breathe, Buck.”

Bucky breathes while Steve rubs his hands and wrists, moving his fingers back and forth, telling him soft little stories about learning this in school from Peggy and his ma.

“When I really started to draw, seriously, and it gave my brain a focus. It helped. I mean, I still get attacks, sometimes, but I found things to help. You just gotta find your thing, Bucky.”

Bucky’s breathing isn’t steady enough for him to say, “how about you,” but he wants to. He really wants to.

* * *

Usually, Steve and Tony orbit near each other, but rarely interact one-on-one beyond “hey, how’s it going” from what Bucky can see. Until the day Tony and Bruce walk into Steve's shop, Bruce headed to the back and the computers.

Tony leans on the front counter, into Steve’s space, with a sleazy, “Did you leave the money on the nightstand, baby?”

Bucky looks up sharply, because, “Allow me to tell you how much it sucks being the new guy. Am I the only one who has no idea what’s going on?”

“Not even remotely,” Bruce replies.

“Ah ha!” Bucky points at Bruce in triumph. “Tony, why are you talking to Steve like he’s a prostitute? Steve, why is Tony always in your shop instead of running his own business? Bruce, have you ever considered taking Pepper and just running as far as possible? Where the hell is Pepper, anyway?”

“All the time. She’s running Tony’s empire,” Bruce tells him.

“Tony owns the shop,” Steve says at the same time Tony says, regally, “I’m his boss.”

“You are not my boss, Stark.”  

“Oh. This part I knew,” Bruce says.

“Am so the boss of you,” Tony laughs, and argues with Steve over whether he owns twelve or fifteen percent of the shop.

Bucky needs a smoke. And a drink. And a candy bar. “Next time, Bruce, bring Pepper instead.”

“That’s what the board members all said.” Bruce shakes his head.

“That’s what your mom said,” Tony crows.

Over the weekend, at the club, Bucky sees Steve and Tony really going at it, all alpha male posture from Steve and defensive crossed arms from Tony. Bucky’s afraid he might have to step in and break it up, officially a bouncer or no. He’s not afraid of either of them; he could kick both their asses with one hand tied behind his back (he knows the moves, he’s done it before). He’d be on Steve’s side anyway no matter what Tony's done. But he doesn’t want to beat up the rich guy who employs pretty much all his friends and is normally a nice guy. An asshole, sure, but a nice guy. It’s probably bad form to punch the guy who keeps jokingly offering him sex and seriously offering him jobs. He hopes that’s how it is, not the other way around.

“The marrieds are at it again, I take it,” Clint asks, sliding out from nowhere to line up beside Bucky and hand him a beer.

“Huh?” Bucky asks because fuck, Tony already has Bruce _and_ Pepper, now he gets Steve, too? Life cannot be that … Well, actually Bucky’s entirely certain life can be that unfair. He takes a long swallow of his beer.

“Those two,” Clint gestures with his bottle, “argue like an old married couple. I have literally watched them say the exact same thing and argue about it for an hour. Married.”

“Huh.” Bucky drains about half the bottle, thinking it’s about time to switch to Jack. Clint probably won’t let him die in the gutter.

“They’re not though,” Clint continues, still not looking directly at Bucky. “Tony’s shockingly faithful to Pepper and Bruce and Steve likes guys a little … less wiry. Just to clarify.” Clint wanders off, bouncing over to Coulson and kissing him obnoxiously on the cheek. Coulson frowns at Clint but then wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him close, settling him down so quick and smooth it makes Bucky’s heart hurt.

Bucky looks back toward where Steve was, but all he sees is Tony, looking smug and cuddled between Pepper and Bruce, sketching something in the air with quick moving hands.

Bucky slams the rest of his beer and heads out before the punk orgy/hippie love fest can begin.    

* * *

Bucky cannot stop thinking about Steve, what Clint’s said about Steve. He figures at some point he should stop waiting for his balls to drop and actually get around to talking to Steve about this, but right now the thought drives him to the diner for more cheeseburgers and fries and apple pie than he’d care to admit to.

He goes home and feels bad about eating his feelings like that, kind of pathetic and sad and really, really full. He tries to get comfortable, undressing so that his pants stop threatening to pop. He’s feeling better once he gets them off, and figures, what the hell, it’s not like his night will get any worse if he tugs one out.

He lays down on his back and puts his hands on top of his stomach. Pushes a little, _ugh_ , and wonders if Steve would want to touch him like this. If Steve would turn away, or if he’d want to sit on Bucky’s thighs, rub circles onto his belly until he stopped feeling quite so bloated, and then ride him maybe. Maybe he’d make Bucky suck him off, already so full and getting fuller.

Bucky feels a little guilty about jerking off to Steve like this, but god, he wants it so bad, and he hasn’t done this in so long, and he just really wants to come thinking about how intense Steve looked talking to Tony, firm-jawed and stubborn and focused and determined. Thinking about Steve’s slender fingers, how cold they felt when Steve had grabbed his arm and drawn on him, how good they felt rubbing his hands, how good they would feel on him now, lifting his stomach up and rubbing just right, right there, _right there_.  

* * *

Bucky heads to the shop the next evening. He’s got a decent bank account of accumulated hazard pay and his expenses are minimal. It’s not like he has anything else to do. Sam has been making noises about his finding some kind of purpose, but the only thing Bucky’s really good at is classified. He did a lot of work on engines in the service, and Sam said something about mechanics, but the smell of burning motor oil and unexpected loud noises are still likely to turn him into a shivering mess. He’s not too keen on heading into a garage any time soon. It's a thought for the future, anyway.

The shop’s surprisingly full for a Thursday night. Natasha’s piercing some girl’s nose - she freelances as a piercer by appointment only at the shop. Usually she specializes in the more extreme piercings. Bucky saw her do an amazing corset-style piercing in a spiderweb pattern for one of Clint’s friends, but she must have decided to slum it tonight. Bucky’s not sure what she does for a living, but he’s pretty sure it’s even more classified than his own past and if she told him she’d not only have to kill him, but do it so well even he’d be impressed.

He stops that line of thinking as the newly pierced girl checks herself out in the hand mirror Natasha gives her. No reason to go down that road.

Steve’s busy finishing up the dreaded frat boy tribal on some jackass’s leg. Clint’s stocking the jewelry case and running the scanner up front. He’s got a great eye for sizing and placement, so he’s the most efficient, even though he doesn’t work in the shop. Bucky's not sure what he does for a living, either, if anything, but he knows Clint's not allowed to hang out in the shop without a task. Not since The Incident.

“Bet Steve’s having a blast over there,” Bucky says quietly when Clint looks up.

“Yeah," Clint shakes his head. "It’s a shitty _tat_ , but at least it’s not a _shitty_ tat.”

Bucky glances around, trying to figure out if there’s something he can do or if he should just go, get out of the way, when Steve looks up from the leg he’s working on and smiles at him, a real smile, full out.

“Bucky, hey! Hang out here, okay, wait for me? If you’re not busy?”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Bucky says, a little too honest. He chats up the customers, separating the tourists and the gawkers from the ones who are serious, sending the latter to Peggy and Clint at the front desk to set up appointments.

Finally, they’re done, shop cleared and lights on low, security gates drawn and it’s calm and quiet. Steve stretches, thin body bending in the low light, and Bucky’s reminded of his little fantasy session from the day before. He hopes the lights are dim enough that any blush he's sporting is hidden. Steve shuffles over to the opposite side of the sofa Bucky’s sitting on and flops down, head about six inches from Bucky’s thigh, one leg bent over the arm, the other foot on the floor, his arm flung up over his eyes. He lets out a long groan.

Bucky bites his lip ring, tugs on it sharply with his teeth to distract himself and looks away.

“Long day, slugger?” Tony asks. Steve half-heartedly flips him off, and then sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“Our little engine that could,” Tony coos, and Bruce flicks him in the ear and redirects his attention.

“Bucky.” Steve rolls his head back to look up at Bucky, upside down. “Remind me why I got into business with Stark?”

“Oh, no.” Bucky waves his hands. “I’m still the new guy. You close ranks and I’m out in the cold.”

“Nuh-uh,” Tony calls. “Steve made you a pretty so now you’re ours forever.”

“Fuck, Tony,” Steve mutters, standing, and Bucky hears Bruce hiss, “ _Surprise_ , Tony.”

“What? What does that mean?” Bucky follows Steve, struggling to his feet. Steve settles at the drafting table in the far corner and turns on the desk lamp.

“Your fix-it. I worked the Sharpie design out, finished the line work and the details. I mean, you don’t have to get it or anything, if you don’t like it or don’t want it, but I drew it for you, so you should have it.” Steve’s blushing as he unrolls the paper.

Bucky’s speechless. He kinda forgot this is how he and Steve met, only a few weeks ago, it feels like they’ve known each other forever. But this, this mechanical arm, stopping at his wrist bones and up on his shoulder, working his ugly thick scars in as joints in the metal. It’s _gorgeous_.

“I. Steve. It’s. It’s amazing.”

Steve’s backed off a little, letting Bucky have his space, get some air, but it’s not enough - Bucky’s about to throw up or grab Steve and kiss him and never stop, but he can’t. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he’s going to lose it.

“Bucky, come smoke with me so Coulson doesn’t find out,” Clint calls out, and Bucky is so, _so_ grateful for the distraction.

“Yes, okay, yeah. Steve, I. Thanks.” Bucky ducks outside.

“You need to put your head between your knees?” Clint asks.

Bucky shakes his head, though he’s not sure about that yet. “You really going to smoke?” He offers the pack to Clint.

“ _Fuck_ no. Coulson’s got eyes everywhere. Besides, there are rules I get to break and rules I don’t and that one’s firmly in the _don’t_ file.”

“What’s the point of having rules if you’re just going to break them?” He gets his hands to stop shaking long enough to light his cigarette and takes a long drag.

“Part of the game. What’s the point of wanting Steve if you’re not going to go after him?”

Bucky coughs on the exhale and “Fuck, that burns, you giant dick. Not pulling any punches tonight, are you?”

“Nope,” Clint pops. “Stop pining.”

“Pining,” Bucky scoffs.

“He’s into you. Did you see that piece?”

“He drew you a piece. He into you, too?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Yes, he’s so into me, I paid him five hundred dollars for the privilege. How much did he charge you again? Oh, right, _nothing_.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Jesus, are you five?”

Clint laughs and Bucky finishes his smoke, a little calmer.

* * *

Some days the definition of ‘morning run’ is a little blurry, but Bucky’s runs with Sam do wonders to help him clear his head. He’s always liked being active, being physical, and the extra thirty-odd pounds he’s carrying haven’t stopped that. And it’s amazingly satisfying to watch the other joggers boggle at the pierced-up, tatted-up fat guy outpacing them.

Sam spends the last mile of their run/therapy asking, “Who’s got you all smitten?” and “My word, Mr. Barnes, do you have a gentleman friend?” and finally, more seriously, “I think you’re in a good place, if you think you might want to start seeing someone.”

To which Bucky retorts, “You asking me out, Wilson?” and it’s admittedly not his best comeback but they are on mile _six_ , jesus.

"So very much not my type, Barnes," Sam says and then laughs when Bucky flops his big ass down to pant in the shade for a while. Bucky doesn’t know what to say about Steve, even if he did want to talk about him, which he does and doesn’t in equal measure. In the end he says nothing at all, but he clasps Sam in a one-armed bro hug at the end of breakfast.

* * *

Bucky runs into Steve at a weekend show. Strike Team Delta are playing, so it’s not like Bucky didn’t know everyone - including Steve - would likely be there. But they didn’t make plans to show up together or anything. It’s apparently Clint’s last show before Darcy comes back to town and takes over her rightful place at keyboard. Bucky’s going to continue renting from them, taking one bedroom; Jane and Darcy, the other. They apparently share all the time on tour, and are used to it, and didn't want to put him out on the street or something like that.  

Every time Tony sees Bucky now, instead of hitting on him and offering to make him junior security officer or head of housekeeping, he loudly sings the _Three’s Company_ theme. Bruce elbows him in the ribs to get him to shut up, but they’re both working on playing the theme song on the liquor bottles behind the bar. Tony’s giving out free shots to get the levels in the bottles where he needs them, so Bucky isn’t really sure whose side Bruce is on.  

Clint has decreed that this is a formal occasion. Coulson arrives wearing possibly the nicest suit Bucky’s ever seen, and Bucky’s done stints in several major embassies. Clint is in a giant, poofy lavender ballgown. “Because fuck you, I’m pretty,” Clint insists.

“Clint, no one asked,” Natasha sighs.

“You’re very pretty, sweet boy,” Coulson tells him, walking away, and Bucky doesn’t see either of them again for about half an hour.

The show is fantastic, Natasha full of venom, Pepper playing bass like she sold her soul for it, Clint attacking the keys like it’s personal. Bucky’s in the pit, working out some of the aggression and pent up frustration of the week when he runs into Steve. Literally, he runs straight into Steve as he gets shoved from the edge of the pit.

Bucky reaches out, holds Steve upright, one big hand reaching around Steve’s scrawny shoulders, making sure he’s okay. Steve nods that he’s fine, mouths thanks, and stumbles forward into Bucky again. They’re still pretty much in the pit, just standing there like they’re new to it.

Bucky drags Steve to the edge, keeping his arm around Steve and somehow he just kind of stays there, pressed into Bucky’s side and stealing sips from Bucky’s beer for the rest of the set.

It’s a really good show.

* * *

Bucky makes it home, equally buzzed on beer and getting close to Steve, and flops onto his bed.

It’s not exactly a shame-spiral, as Sam says, because Bucky’s not unhappy with how he looks, and he’s not eating because he’s unhappy. He’s eating because he wants to, and because fuck it, cheeseburgers are delicious. But he feels guilty afterwards, because all he wants is to find Steve, get him to touch him and rub him and … and admire him after he’s put away all that food or beer or both. It’s not that eating gets him hot, but thinking about Steve while he’s eating gets him hot, and it’s all a little tangled up in his head.

Plus, it’s kind of a shitty thing to do, jerking off to his secret kinks over his secret crush on a guy he’s not even sure likes him back. Repeatedly. Steve’s not really given him clear signals that he’s into him or not. It’s not like Steve blows him off or anything, he’s always welcoming and doesn’t seem bothered by Bucky always in his space. But unless he’s working on Bucky’s tattoos, he hasn’t really touched Bucky since the time with his panic attack.

Bucky touched him this time, and Steve allowed it, stepped back along with Bucky when the crowd shifted. Steve didn’t take any of the hundred and one opportunities he had to _not_ spend the night tucked safely under Bucky’s arm, side pressed up against him, but Steve didn’t hang on, didn’t touch Bucky back either.

They shared that beer, though, so maybe.

But days before, when Bucky had asked about the bands playing at some upcoming shows, Steve lit up, rattling off bands and members and inspirations and stylistic differences. Bucky could barely keep up, every third band he’d never even heard of, before Steve trailed off.

“You know,” he said, gathering up his inks and stripping off the neoprene gloves. “Coulson is really better for all that. You should ask him.”

When Bucky asked Steve where he should go to get some clothes, poking at his belly and saying, “I’m down to two pairs of jeans I can barely squeeze into and my damn t-shirts come up too short,” Steve had swallowed and said, quietly, “I like your shirts.”

“Well yeah, I got ‘em all at shows you went to see,” Bucky teased.

Steve coughed. “You know Peggy is always trying to play dress-up with me. She’ll take you. She's good at that stuff.”

When Bucky had a craving for macaroni and cheese, “and not that shit out of a box, I can’t even get that to come out right,” he asked for some good restaurants. Steve snorted and smiled, but Clint jumped in and started debating “Added bacon? Breadcrumbs? Twice-baked? Three-cheese?” and Steve left them to it. Bucky ended the night with a great recommendation and a ton of macaroni, but no closer to getting a read on Steve.

And here he is, laying in bed half naked and half drunk, scooping the last of the fried rice out of one of the containers he stopped and bought on the way home from the bar, already stupidly full and knowing he’s going to keep going until he can’t move. He’s already unbuttoned his pants, and the zipper’s starting to ease down a little all on its own. He ends up flopped back in bed, groaning, so heavy and full, thinking about it until he’s ready to yank his zipper the rest of the way down and shove his hand down his pants.

There’s not enough room for anything - his pants are getting way too tight, and he rips the stitches on the belt loop a little in his haste to get them off, get himself off. He can’t help but start furiously jerking off to thoughts of Steve watching him eat like this, telling him to pace himself so he can take it all, touching him, maybe even helping him somehow. Maybe after, after he finished it all, every last bite, Steve leaning up against him, small and safe, so proud of him, telling him he did well, so well, so good.

* * *

Bucky’s seething. Some little asshole has been starting shit all night, dragging unwilling people into the pit and throwing elbows and Bucky’s about to end the fucker as soon as he helps this girl who’s obviously at her first show shakily back to her feet.

But Steve’s already there, on the asshole, bloodied nose but holding his own until Clint stage dives and tangles everyone up in his tattered ballgown. (Coulson insists he’ll get tired of it soon and finally change his clothes, but Bucky’s pretty sure Clint’s going to keep wearing it until Coulson actually makes him take it off.)

Thor, back from the festival circuit in Europe and reclaiming his rightful place providing security at the club, wades into the crowd to haul the asshole off, bowing and grinning eagerly at the round of applause he receives before the show carries on. Jane and Darcy hoot and cat-call at him from the back of the room, but eventually they settle down. Jane’s bent over a tablet with Bruce at the bar for crying out loud, while Darcy’s scoping the room. Steve’s already gone when Bucky turns back. Clint points toward the bathroom and shrugs, but Steve’s not there, either.

When Bucky comes into the shop the next day, Steve’s bruised and holding himself stiffly, knuckles a little raw but not broken. Steve waves him over to the front desk and hands him a tupperware container.

“What’s this?” Bucky asks, popping the lid. The warm smell of cinnamon greets him. “Snickerdoodles?”

“I saw you help that girl up, and I wanted to, you know, say thanks and stuff.”

And Steve goes back to sketching Clint wearing the ballgown, probably to give to Coulson.

Bucky is speechless and hard and hungry and horny all at the same time. Steve’s always giving him things that take his breath away. “Thanks.” He puts the lid back on, because if he lets himself eat them now, he’s not going to stop, and considering what he’s been getting up to at home that would end well for no one. Regardless of what his fantasies say.

“Hey, I got a while before my next appointment, and even though obviously I’m swamped with work here” - Steve gestures around the empty shop - “want to work on your arm some more?”

“Sure, yeah.” Bucky nods and starts rolling up the sleeve of his button-up.

“Have you eaten?”

“Me?”

“No, really, I can’t have you passed out in my shop, people will _talk_.” Steve makes his eyes wide and sounds scandalized, turning from where he’s washing up at the shop’s sink.

Bucky laughs. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“You … could have a cookie? Just to be sure. Unless you don’t want them?”

Bucky sits down in the vintage dental chair. "Steve, I have never in my life not wanted a cookie.”

Steve grins and slides a stool over to the chair. “Eat then, while I get everything set up.”

Bucky takes the rest of the cookies home, arm sore in just the right way around his elbow, and he shoves cookie after cookie into his mouth. He eats them all, selfishly thankful that Jane and Darcy are out so he doesn’t have to share.

* * *

He hangs on to the dish for two days. As much as he wants Steve to know he loved the cookies, he’s not sure he wants Steve to know he ate them all that same night. He does bring the dish back to Steve, because he was raised right. He thought about taking it back full of something, like his mama used to do - Steve could definitely use a meal, but Bucky’s made no secret of his inability to so much as boil water. If this is going to go where Bucky wants it to go, he probably shouldn’t make Steve think he’s trying to poison him.

When he hands the dish over, though, Tony leaps up from browsing the newest generic ink magazine in the lounge/lobby area. “Wait, that’s a cookie dish. Bucky got cookies? Why did Bucky get cookies and we didn’t? Where’s my share of the cookies, Tater Tot?”

Steve’s ignoring Tony, and Bucky flushes a little because there were a lot of cookies in the bowl, but he shrugs and says, “They were really good.”

Steve looks into his eyes, though, and says, “Yeah? I could make some more, if you wanted.”

“No fair!" Tony yells before Bruce clamps a hand over his mouth and whispers something in his ear.

* * *

Clint joins Sam and Bucky for breakfast, moping because Coulson had to go out of town with Natasha for business. Clint won’t tell them the reason he didn’t get to go, but he didn’t look mischievous about it. He looked genuinely unhappy, so they let him poke at his eggs with no explanation. Sam tells a story from basic to try to cheer him up, and that gets them all to talking about their army days, telling the good stories, pretending for today that there are no bad ones. They’re walking into the shop, laughing about the end of Clint’s story.

"I swear, he was in nothing but tighty whities and a cowboy hat! The general just shook his head and walked right back out the door!”

Steve’s bent over working, preoccupied, so Bucky leaves him be and follows Clint into the stockroom, carrying on, “Yeah, you can’t say even still you don’t sometimes think about going back, too, man. But it’s not like they’ll take me like this.” He gestures to his arm, the tat and the scars. “Not that I really want ‘em to. But the thought.”

“It’s always there, yeah. No matter how you left the life.”

* * *

A few nights later, when it’s just the two of them in the shop, Steve’s shutting off the lights and finishing his wipe-downs while Bucky’s once again counting inventory. Everyone else inexplicably hates this job, but Bucky doesn’t mind it. He finds it soothing when his hands are steady.

Steve brings another tupperware container out from the desk area.

“Oh, wow, more cookies already?” Bucky smiles, making grabby hands.

“Well. These, um, I mean, they’re still _cookies_ , but they’re made with almond flour and very little sugar. Just in case…”

Bucky kind of blinks dumbly at Steve before he catches on. They’re _diet_ cookies. He’s stunned, because Steve’s never said anything negative about his appearance. He’s torn between hurt and angry, because fuck Steve for trying to tell him to diet.

"Just, I know you’ve been running with Sam in the mornings, and I heard you’re trying to get back into the army or something?" Steve trails off, before squaring his shoulders on a deep breath. "You said the other day about missing the army and you couldn’t get back in _‘like this,_ ’" Steve makes finger quotes and then pulls a face like he’s disgusted with himself.

"I’m not going back into the army,” Bucky says, relieved.  “Oh my god, no."

"Oh. Good." Steve looks down at the cookies, pulls them back to his chest a little.

"Or dieting, fuck that," Bucky says. He snatches the container away from Steve and pops a whole cookie into his mouth.

"Oh, _good_ ,” Steve breathes.

"Yeah?" Bucky questions around a mouth full of crumbs. The cookies are, shockingly, really good.

"Yeah,” Steve says, breaking a cookie in half but not eating it. “You shouldn’t. You’re gorgeous like this. I. I mean, you’d be good looking no matter what, but this is nice, this is good. I like it. That you like it, I mean." Steve stutters, flustered, turning pinker.

"Damn straight," Bucky smiles, and eats another cookie, and pushes playfully at Steve’s shoulder. _Like ripping off a band-aid_ , Bucky thinks, and says, “Come get dinner with me.”

* * *

They end up at the diner, because it’s two in the morning and where else are they going to go? Bucky tells Steve a little about his late-night wanderings and finding Tony’s club. He asks for Steve’s story.

"I got into this whole thing the traditional way,” he tells Bucky, picking his food apart before eating it, getting distracted, offering some of his fries to Bucky in exchange for an onion ring.

Bucky encourages Steve to go on. He’d momentarily forgotten about the fact that this was supposed to be a date when he saw the onion rings, but if they both have them, whatever. He’ll buy gum.

If it gets that far.

Steve was - still is - a scrawny, sickly kid, spent a lot of time alone in his room. “For a while, I was super into baseball” - he’s still into baseball, Bucky knows, because he has baseball seam stitches tattooed around his elbows and the corners of any paper Steve has in his hands long enough ends up with little doodles of stylized balls and bats and bases and popcorn - “but it’s not like I ever had any real hope of playing.” He shrugs, pulls the sleeves of his oversized hoodie back down over his wrists.

“Then I got into art, I guess. My mom bought me pencils and a sketch pad, because reading can hurt my eyes when I’m tired but it was so damn boring, stuck in my room, thinking about my body trying to kill me.” Steve smiles, a small fragile thing, there and gone. “I was a little overly serious as a kid. We couldn’t afford cable, and reception sucked in our apartment. But sometimes, when I’m drawing - hey, do you want the rest of my fries?”

Bucky eats them off Steve’s plate, making a ‘go on’ gesture with the fries.

Steve shrugs.

“Sometimes, when you’re drawing…” Bucky prompts.

“Oh.” Steve startles like he wasn’t expecting Bucky to have been listening. “You know, sometimes, the pictures won’t come out. I can’t make my brain slow down enough to get all the images out on the page before they slip away. Music makes it easier to … grab them.”

“I can see that. Want a milkshake?”

Steve shakes his head. “But you should get one.”

“Only if you tell me more.” Steve can go on for hours about music, any music. He’s like an encyclopedia but with _opinions_.

Bucky orders an extra-large milkshake to go and walks Steve home, slowly, because while they had been at the diner for a long time, Bucky still packed away a fair amount. He's distracted and drinks too fast and gets an ice cream headache finishing the last of the shake. He winces, putting a hand on the nearest wall for a minute, and Steve laughs so hard Bucky thinks he might actually be in danger of passing out.

Bucky grabs him in a headlock and pulls Steve close, leans down to kiss him, just a quick little something. Steve squirms around and wiggles the headlock into a hug and turns the kiss filthy, making a little noise and licking at Bucky’s lip, using his teeth to pull on the ring there a little.

Bucky braces his back against the building, pulls Steve in closer when Steve works his hands into Bucky’s back pockets and squeezes.

The kiss ends almost as suddenly as it started, and then Steve’s standing more upright, stepping away slowly, tugging down his hoodie and talking about The Pixies like the kiss hadn't even happened. Bucky adjusts himself and walks with him, waiting to see if Steve was just done kissing him completely or if he was waiting until they got behind the closed doors of his apartment to finish what he started.

But Steve’s being very careful to keep his distance, hands tucked up inside his hoodie, head down while he’s talking. Bucky reaches out, puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, but Steve stays hunched with his hands shoved in his own pockets now, so Bucky lets his hand drop back down.

When they get to Steve’s building, Steve’s ready with his keys in his hand. He opens the door to the security entrance and props the door open, Bucky on one side, Steve firmly on the other.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the shop, right? For your arm?” Steve sounds unsure, even though they’ve had the session blocked off in the book in bright purple ink from the beginning.

“Course,” Bucky says, about to ask if he can come in, not for anything, just to make sure Steve’s okay.

“Kay. G’night,” Steve leans up on his toes, stretches around the door to kisses Bucky chastely, nothing like earlier, right on the corner of his mouth. He turns to walk inside. He makes it about three steps, Bucky still watching him like a sap, before he turns back and hurries toward the door, opening it and reaching for Bucky. He’s kissing him again, and it would be hot and dirty like before, but this time Steve keeps interrupting himself. He’s pushing his knuckles into Bucky’s chest where his hands are fisted in his shirt, but not releasing him. He’s murmuring between kisses, “Tomorrow, I’ll see you tomorrow. You should go, god, the neighbors, Mrs O’Leary will be leaving for work _any minute, Bucky_.”

Bucky laughs a little when he ends up kissing Steve’s teeth, and pushes Steve back by his skinny hips. “You know,” he starts, “we don’t have to give the neighbors a show. You’ve probably got a whole room right upstairs I bet Mrs O’Leary’s never even been in, right?”

Steve pulls away a little, unclenching his fists and smoothing out the wrinkles in Bucky’s shirt. “I. Um, yeah, but. I.” he stutters, looks like he’s about to hyperventilate.   

“Steve, it’s okay. You go upstairs, I’ll go home, I’ll make myself _comfortable_ ,” he leers, over-exaggerating as much as he can so Steve’s sure to get that he’s joking, “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Steve blushes, but his breathing calms. “Asshole.”

“That’s really more of a third date thing, isn't it?"

* * *

Clint comes into the shop while Steve’s working on Bucky’s arm. Coulson’s representing some kids who are putting on a show in a basement club on the other side of town, and he starts tacking up flyers on the cork board by the door. It’s not entirely their scene, but everyone agrees to come and give the kids a good turnout to play to.

“First paying gig, that’s kinda a big deal,” Clint says. “Even if it is lame-ass folksy indie.”

“Clint, I’ve seen your iPod, you need to just not,” Tony says.

Steve leans over to whisper at Bucky, “He’s got a soft spot for one of the kids in the band. Apparently he built his own all-metal piano in search of the perfect sound, and Tony fell a little bit in love.”

"With the kid or the piano?" Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs.

“I bet that’s adorable. Want to go together?” Bucky asks, and he’s relieved when Steve nods and says, “Of course.”

Bucky has to leave after his session. He’s getting lunch with Sam, one of his semi-mandatory sessions, and Steve tells him to have fun with his secret agent covert assassin meeting, smiling and going in for a quick goodbye kiss.

Bucky laughs a not-right sounding laugh, “Yeah,” and he leaves, just like that.

* * *

“Fuck, Sam, it was so stupid. he doesn’t know anything, it didn’t mean anything.”

“Then don’t let it mean anything. Own it.”

* * *

Bucky takes Sam's advice and decides to go all out. Steve wants sexy assassin, that’s who Steve’s going to get.

Well, a sexy, overweight assassin.

A sexy, overweight assassin who’s a little fucked in the head.

Whatever, he’s dressing up for Steve, and that’s all there is to it.  

He squeezes his ass into his dark jeans, the ones that are frayed at the seams and cuffs, worn thin but not quite to holes in the thighs. He pulls out a t-shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, tight around his biceps, showing off his ink. He wants Steve to see how he’s marked him permanently. There’s a little shadowed hollow spot where the shirt pulls across Bucky’s belly button, and when he moves it rides up just enough to show a strip of his muffin top around the stretched waistband.

Steve wants this with him, Bucky’s going to give it to him.

At the last minute, he stops back into the bathroom, grabs the eyeliner Natasha left last time she'd used his bathroom to double check her makeup.

* * *

Bucky walks into the shop expecting Steve to be ready to go. He’s afraid he’s running late, actually. Fucking eyeliner. But some guy’s skin isn’t taking the ink well and Steve’s preoccupied. Bucky’s a little let down; he’d kind of wanted to make an entrance.

Peggy appears like an angel and redirects him to the stockroom. “Help me with these boxes for a moment, won’t you, Bucky?”

“Of course.” Bucky follows her into the stockroom, unsurprised when there aren’t any boxes out of place. Bucky’s been expecting the shovel talk since Steve started baking him cookies and he realized, thanks to Tony, that Steve didn’t bake cookies for everyone. (Well, he did, just not _all the time_.)

Waiting to get yelled at for not being good enough for Steve (he _knows_ , but he’s glad Steve’s got people who look out for him) has been frustrating. But now that it’s happening, Peggy’s looking at him like she can see into his soul, taking in the ridiculous outfit he’d worn. He’d left the house thinking he was hot shit, but under Peggy’s scrutiny, he feels awkward, bloated and puffy. Like he's pretending, and she knows it.

Bucky decides to bite the bullet and end the stalemate. “You’re Steve’s best friend, right? You’ve known him longest?”

"I have."

"So what creative end will I come to if I hurt him?"

She watches him coolly. "Are you planning to hurt him?"

"Peggy, I’m hoping to give that boy everything he’s ever wanted before he even knows he wants it." Bucky holds her eyes, hoping she can see the sincerity there. “You need me to figure it all out on my own, I’m willing to put in the work. But a little help here wouldn’t be unappreciated. Steve’s. Steve’s hard to read.”

"We’ll see," she says, pursing her cherry-red lips. But her shoulders have dropped some and she’s lost a little of the threat from her posture. Bucky’s still entirely sure he’ll wake up with his dick in a blender if he so much as breathes the wrong way near Steve, but at least he knows she’s not looking to sabotage him at this stage, either.   

“Your outfit.” Peggy pauses, and Bucky can't stop the flinch he knows shows his hand. Peggy sizes him up again. “Steve will like it.”

* * *

They take the bus out to the show, because Steve never learned how to drive and Bucky won’t drive anywhere anymore. It’s far enough that walking is out of the question, but all of their friends are going to be there and they can definitely bum a ride from someone at the end of the night if the buses have stopped running.

Some yuppie bitch keeps giving them the stink-eye as they climb aboard, clutching her purse to her stomach and scooting closer to her oblivious husband, who is too busy yakking loudly on his phone about his busted transmission to notice her desperate plea for attention.

Bucky rolls his eyes, and Steve - Steve may look like an angel, but he’s a subversive little shit. That’s why Bucky lo - likes him so much. Because he waggles his fingers at the lady while Bucky takes a seat on the opposite side, one row ahead of them. Then Steve plops his bony ass down right on top of Bucky’s thighs, wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, and leans in.

He whispers in Bucky’s ear, the one the lady can’t see: “I know her. She’s rude to the baristas and she told me once I didn’t have to _settle_ for boys; I’d find a nice girl if I’d just bulk up a little bit.”

Bucky grabs Steve’s waist as the bus jerks to a start.

“I’m not using you, promise, and you can say no, but -”

Bucky cuts him off. “Wanna fuck with her worldview, Steve?”

“Just let me stay here, okay?”

As if Bucky would tell him no. Steve reaches up, runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and kisses him, closed mouth, right on the lips.

* * *

When they show up to the club - really a converted house with some kind of coffee shop on the top floor and a stage area in the basement - Natasha and Coulson are sitting at a patio table on the postage-stamp front lawn. Clint’s sitting cross-legged on the ground by Coulson’s feet. Bucky raises his eyebrow, but it’s a club, people do weird shit at clubs.

“Hi, Natasha. Coulson, how was your trip?” Steve says, because he’s polite and genuinely interested, and glances down at Clint. “Hi, Clint.”

Clint rolls his head back on Coulson’s knee, a little glassy-eyed, and grins dopily up at Steve.

“Busy. Fruitful,” Natasha says. “Possibly too long.” She also looks down at Clint, and Bucky has a better idea of exactly what Clint's doing on the ground.  

“Clint’s not allowed to speak right now,” Coulson calmly informs them, solidifying Bucky's hunch. “But I’ll remind him you’re here a little later.”

Steve looks kind of worried, but Bucky hears a thumping rubbery bassline start up from the club and he wants to feel that in his chest, in his bones, so he guides Steve on their way. Steve hesitates at the door, letting the bored-looking girl stamp his hand, looking back over to Natasha and Coulson and Clint.

“Is Clint high?” He looks concerned.

“He’s flying all right,” Bucky laughs, holding out his hand for the girl and stepping through the entryway, following Steve as he leads them down the basement stairs and into the dark, vaguely moldy-smelling room. “Coulson must have taken him down hard right before they came out.”

“I don’t think Coulson does drugs.” Steve wrinkles his nose, stepping out of the way of the foot traffic swirling at the stairs/bathroom/bar nexus.

“No, he’s not _actually_ high, Steve. He’s. Shit.” Bucky laughs, too shocked not to. “Oh my god, Steve, oh my god, you don’t know.” There are actual tears in Bucky’s eyes, and he can see Steve’s getting pissed at him, and fuck, no, he has to stop laughing, but he just can’t.

“Babe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I just. Sister Mary Francis down at St. Pete’s knows what those two get up to, c’mere,” and he stops grinning long enough to grab Steve’s face and kiss him.

Steve pulls back, hard, pouting, his arms crossed and ears red. “Don’t.” He spits. “Don’t laugh at me. Tell me what I’m too stupid to get.”

That sobers Bucky up real fast. “Shit, Steve, no. That’s not it, I didn't mean it like. You’re not stupid, jesus. No.” Bucky tries to explain what he knows about it, Coulson and Clint, and he’s not an expert or anything, but he does his best.

Steve looks confused. "Are you sure? Why? Why would they want that?"

“I don’t know, I never saw the appeal, myself. Ask Clint.”

“Well, Clint obviously doesn’t want me to know,” Steve grouses. “Besides, apparently his boyfriend gets to tell him when to talk.”

“Steve, they’re into it. Did Clint look unhappy to you?”

Steve considers. “No.”

Bucky cuffs Steve lightly on the shoulder. “Trust me. Clint’s exactly where he wants to be. Ask him, okay?”

“When he’s allowed to talk again.”

“You got it.”

“I so do _not_ get it,” Steve complains. “Uh. Sorry I was kind of a dick.”

“It’s all right. You’re still cute.” Bucky tweaks his nose.

“Fuck off,” Steve bats at his hand, but catches it and holds on.

Bucky wraps his other arm around Steve’s waist and pulls him close. “Can I kiss you now, though?”

“I don’t know. Gonna make it worth my while?” They end up making out like teenagers against the basement's back wall throughout the entire folksy set, Steve’s little cold hands dipping into Bucky’s waistband, just barely able to squeeze in, his thumbs occasionally pressing into Bucky’s belly button. Bucky keeps one hand on the back of Steve’s neck, holding him steady.

* * *

Bucky and Steve can catch a ride home with Sam, but he’s leaving in “five minutes, Barnes. Some of us have to keep business hours. And no sex in my backset!”

“That’s what she said!” Tony yells. Bucky turns away to find Steve. He’s been sitting with Clint for more than an hour. Bucky hates to interrupt, but he needs to know if Steve wants them to wait around or if he’s ready to go.

“But Coulson, he. You like what he does to you?” Steve’s saying.

“ _With_ me. Yeah, man, of course.”

“You’re sure. He didn’t talk you into any of this or make you do things you don’t want to do?”

“No, Steve, you _know_ Coulson. He wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do. Not for real. I promise. I’m sorry I never told you, we all just assumed you knew.”

“Clint, regardless of what Tony tells you, I really don’t sit around and think about my friends’ sex lives. He does, but I don’t.”

“Yeah, you got enough trouble working out your own issues, don’tcha?”

Steve blushes and mumbles “It’s not like that,” and Bucky decides he’s perfectly fine to interrupt.

* * *

The first time Steve blows Bucky is a Tuesday. Bucky knows it’s a Tuesday because A. he’s a sentimental sap with a memory for things like that, and B. Tuesdays are both Steve’s night off from the shop and DJ night at Stark’s. (Thor is a very good DJ, but Scandinavian house/electronica isn’t exactly their scene.)

Steve invites Bucky over to his apartment for cookies.

Bucky is a dumbass. “You bring me cookies all the time, though,” Bucky pats his stomach, looking over at Steve.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “But these would be fresh cookies. That we can make together. _In my home_ ,” Steve explains slowly.

Bucky looks up. “Oh.”

"Yeah, _oh_.”

So Bucky goes to Steve’s third floor walk-up studio. Because tiny arthritic, asthmatic Steve obviously lives in a third floor walk up that was built approximately the same time dinosaurs went extinct. When Steve answers the door, he's wearing skinny jeans and a red v-neck that has to be a girl’s small because it actually fits him and he’s barefoot and Bucky thinks that if he made a fool of himself in the shop earlier, that’s got nothing on how this night is going to go.

He comes in and they get the pleasantries out of the way and Bucky is a little surprised to see actual cookie ingredients set out on the card table next to Steve’s kitchen area.

"What?" Steve asks, following Bucky’s sight line toward the table.

"I kinda thought maybe ‘cookies’ was like you inviting me up to look at your etchings." Bucky shrugs, grinning.

"You look at my etchings _literally_ every day.” Steve pats Bucky’s cheek as he walks past him into the kitchenette. “Chocolate chip cookies, on the other hand…”

So they make cookies. There’s mixing, there’s Bucky watching Steve’s shoulders flex while he’s mixing, and there’s Steve learning that Bucky is utterly and completely hopeless in the kitchen. Bucky mostly just leans back against the counter and watches Steve, listening to the music Steve’s playing softly in the background, listening to Steve tell him how this song leads to that song that inspired another song.

When Steve pulls the last batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, Bucky’s already there, leaning back against the counter and reaching for one before Steve’s even put the tray down. In the blink of an eye, Steve’s set the tray down, smacked Bucky on the hand and dropped to his knees.

"Ow, fucker," Bucky shakes his hand, and then realizes Steve is actually on his knees.

"You can’t have one yet, they’re not ready. I’ll give them to you when they cool."

Bucky swallows, though it doesn’t help, because _Steve_ is on his _knees_ , rubbing at the fraying seams on the insides of Bucky’s thighs with his thumbs, breath hitting the little strip of exposed belly Bucky’s shirt doesn’t cover. “You gonna distract me until then? Because they smell really good.”

"They are really good," Steve retorts automatically, already reaching up to rub two fingers along Bucky’s waistband. "This is okay, right?” Steve looks up. “You want this?" Steve has to lean back just a little bit to see Bucky’s face.

"Fuckin’ A right I do."

And Steve’s back to mouthing at Bucky’s belly, nipping lightly with his teeth, rubbing just about everywhere, tiniest little hint of his stubble on the underside of Bucky’s tummy, holding on and gently squeezing at Bucky’s love handles and making these little breathy noises that have Bucky damn near coming undone already.

Steve works at getting Bucky’s jeans down his thighs, pulling and tugging, but he keeps distractedly moving his hands away, reaching down to grab at Bucky’s thighs where they’re uncovered now, touching _everywhere_. He finally shoves the jeans out of the way, leaving them pooled around Bucky’s knees. He pulls Bucky’s dick out, and looks up at Bucky’s face, past his belly, and licks the tip, grabbing at Bucky’s soft hips.

Bucky’s hands automatically reach out, cupping the back of Steve’s head, making Steve moan and take him all the way in.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky says, releasing Steve. Before he can move away though, Steve pulls off, leaning back into Bucky’s hand again.

"No, stay there, I like it," Steve says. "Don’t - don’t choke me, but you can keep, keep your hand there, okay?"

Bucky nods, captivated by Steve’s red shiny lips, wet and slick, and watches as Steve leans back in, guiding Steve’s head gently as he sucks him down again, making these amazing little breathy moans and slurpy noises and _jesus_.

Steve keeps reaching one hand down to pull at his own cock, but after a few strokes, it’s back up on Bucky, rubbing his hips, squeezing, digging his fingers in and doing something amazing with his tongue until Bucky warns him and comes, hard.

Steve’s noisy up until then, and then he’s quiet, swallowing and panting harshly and scrubbing his forehead back and forth on Bucky’s stomach, the motion of his arm making him shake a little against Bucky until he let's out a soft little grunt and freezes against Bucky, then collapses into him for just a moment.

He kneels back, flushed and smiling, while Bucky’s grateful for the counter behind him keeping him upright. Steve tugs Bucky’s jeans mostly back up and stands, pushing Bucky toward the sofa, telling him to sit. He washes his hands and grabs the plate of cookies and straddles Bucky’s big thighs to feed him cookies until they’re both hard again.

They jerk each other off and Steve sends Bucky home with a stupid smile on his face and another container of cookies to take with him.

* * *

Bucky finds out Steve’s birthday is the fourth of July from, of course, Clint. There’s going to be a fair with carnival attractions a little bit outside the city that Clint’s affiliated with somehow, and Steve gets a little bouncy when Clint starts talking about it. Bucky’s never seen Steve this visibly excited for anything before.

“Will they have fireworks?” Steve asks.

Clint scoffs. “Of course they have fireworks! They got a guy named Boomer who only has _eight fingers_ , that’s how good their fireworks are.”

Steve makes a face and then smiles. “Fireworks are neat.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty peachy keen,” Tony mocks.

“Shut up, Stark.” Bucky warns. Steve just looks so _happy_. “We’ll go,” he decides. He's pretty sure he can handle fireworks.

They drive out to the fairgrounds, Sam, Bruce, Tony, and Pepper in one car, Maria and Peggy in Maria’s little vintage coupe, and Steve, Bucky, Tasha, Clint and Coulson in another. Bucky has absolutely no problem with the fact that their seating arrangement means Steve spends the entire ride cuddled up on Bucky’s lap, even though Bucky’s foot falls asleep and he has to shake it out for about five minutes by the time they get out of the car.

They wander as a group for a while, until Maria and Peggy split off to go look at the actual fair type things: who grew the biggest pumpkin and who won this year’s Best Quilt ribbons.

Clint drags Coulson to the midway, Coulson trying to convince him that he knows Clint can win at all the games.

“I believe you, sweet boy, you don’t have to prove it.” But Bucky notices Coulson doesn’t actually tell Clint no, which is just as good as telling Clint yes.

Natasha spends her night with Sam, pickpocketing people and using Sam to help her return the wallets to her unsuspecting victims. She doesn’t keep anything; the wallets make their way back in exactly the same condition as she took them.

“Practice,” she mouths at Bucky when she catches him looking.

Steve wants to ride the rides, because deep down he’s an adrenaline junkie, and the fact that these rides were in pieces on the highway twenty-four hours ago is all part of the attraction. Bucky worries briefly about the safety of their construction. With Bucky sitting next to him, the mediocre safety bars really aren’t going to hold Steve inside the little car at all. But Steve is grinning at him, full stop, and Bucky just puts his arm around Steve, pulls him close and holds on.

Steve laughs and closes his eyes, and Bucky kisses him on the top of his head as he insists on riding “one more time, Bucky, come on.”

After the last spin around the tilt-a-whirl, Steve’s looking a little dizzy and green, and Bucky makes him sit at one of the shady-looking picnic tables by where the food vendors are. Bucky buys them a bunch of fried foods and sodas and carefully carries them back to the table.

Steve’s stomach settles enough for him to actually eat a corn dog, heavy on the mustard, and a few pieces of funnel cake. Bucky notices him sucking the sugar off his thumb and pushes his food away.

“It’s getting pretty dark over behind the generator trailers,” Steve says softly, looking up from under his lashes and sucking his index finger into his mouth.  

* * *

They all meet back up in the field where they parked, settling in at the cars and waiting for fireworks. Bruce and Tony and Pepper are laid out on the hood of one of the cars, Bruce in the middle looking like the cat who got the cream.

“I don’t care much for loud noises,” Bruce explains.

“We’ll keep you safe,” Tony says, and it comes out surprisingly sweet.

Sam, Natasha, Peggy and Maria are all actually squeezed into in Maria’s convertible, the seats reclined slightly.  

Bucky leans against the trunk of the last car, the one they rode up in, settling Steve in front of him and crossing his arms over Steve’s chest. Steve folds his arms on top of Bucky’s and tilts his head back to kiss at Bucky’s little double chin.  

Coulson’s staring at a pile of four dozen shedding, patchy, cheap stuffed bears holding hearts in their paws that Clint dumped out in front of their cars.

“We’ll give them to a children’s charity,” Coulson decides.

"But you’re keeping the purple ones!" Clint protests.

"Clint, there are _seven_ purple ones."

"You have an office! Keep them there."

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” Bucky whispers in Steve’s ear.

“Pretty much the best ever,” Steve sighs.

* * *

Bucky takes Steve home after a killer show. Steve’s been clingy and handsy all night, less playful than normal, more … desperate. Bucky’s place is closer, and Jane and Darcy are out with Thor for the night, so they’ve got the place to themselves. Steve’s crowding against Bucky’s back, hands wandering under Bucky’s shirt, trying to dip into his waistband, the hard line of Steve’s dick pressed up against Bucky’s ass while he’s trying to get the damn door open.

It’s not that it bothers Bucky in the slightest, he just isn’t sure where it’s all coming from.

“Steve, Steve. Back up a minute, I gotta get the door open.” Bucky can feel Steve drop back down from his toes, no longer mouthing at Bucky’s neck when the lock finally catches, and they stumble inside. Bucky slams the door shut behind them and pushes Steve against it, kissing him hard.

“Bucky,” Steve pants, “Will you fuck me? Please?”

“Fuck, Steve, yeah.” Bucky pulls him along to his bedroom, and Steve pushes at him, Bucky allowing himself to move, sitting hard on the bed. He pulls Steve over to stand between his legs, wraps his hands around Steve’s ass when Steve bends down to kiss him. Steve steps back, toeing off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head. Soft light spills in from the window, casting Steve in shadow, but Bucky can see enough, the script _on va voir_ inked on his collarbone, the surprising lack of much ink almost everywhere else.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I can put my shirt back -”

Bucky pulls him in, kissing and licking all over Steve’s chest, murmuring, ”shut up, shut up, you’re perfect” to him. One day he might ask about why Steve doesn't have more tattoos, if he’s intending to get more, where and what kind and what they all mean, but Steve’s hands come up and tangle in Bucky’s hair, and questions like that can wait.

“You still want to fuck me, though?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky leans back, taking Steve with him, rolls them both over to lie facing each other in the middle of the bed. “Hell yes.”

Steve pushes Bucky’s t-shirt up, starts working at the button on his pants, but he has to really tug both sides together to get it done.

Steve groans a little “so _hot_ ,” and Bucky reaches down to help him out.

Steve’s moving fast, pulling at his clothes less than gently, biting and sucking at Bucky’s chest and shoulders, pushing him where he wants him. Steve pinches at Bucky’s nipple, makes Bucky wonder about piercing that, too. He wants to slow Steve down, ask him about it, see if it’ll get him hot, make him want to lick and suck there as well.

But Steve’s moved on, rubbing up and down on Bucky’s side, saying “Come _on_ , Bucky.”

Bucky turns away, rolling to his other side and reaching into the nightstand drawer to get the lube. He grabs the bottle, tosses it behind him and rifles around to grab a condom as well. He feels the mattress shift as Steve moves to grab the lube, and he sits up a little more to get the damn condoms out. They’ve slid to the back of the drawer, the box catching on something, and he’s taking longer to get them out than he wanted, clumsy in his anxiousness to get back to Steve.

Finally, Bucky separates just one condom from the strip, dropping the rest to the floor. He rolls back over, and Steve’s already coated his fingers, up on his knees, reaching behind himself to get himself ready.

“Hey,” he says. He can appreciate the view, but he feels like they've skipped a step or five here.

“Sorry, it’s been,” Steve winces, ”uh, a while, give me just a, a second and I’ll be ready, I promise. I just need a minute.”

“Steve.” Bucky runs a hand gently down Steve’s bony back. “Hey, slow down, okay?”

“Yeah, no, don’t change your - I’m good, we can go now, come on, please.” Steve straightens out, up on all fours, turning his head to look at Bucky, eyes wide and hopeful. “I’m ready.”

“You are not.” Bucky sits up, leaving the condom up by Steve’s hands. 

“No, I am - ” Steve starts, but Bucky shushes him.

“But you’re gonna be.” He grabs a pillow and arranges it under Steve’s hips, pushes gently at the small of Steve’s back, lost for a moment in the way his hand spans across damn near the whole thing.

“Settle down here for me, let me get you ready.”

“I _am_ ready.” Steve attempts to get back up again, but Bucky leaves his hand where it is, pressing heavy on Steve's back.

“Good, then you won’t mind if I make sure for myself.”

Steve huffs, but he stills a little. Bucky strokes his back, from his neck all the way down to his knees, and back up. Steve’s tight, but he is slick, he wasn’t lying about being ready in that sense.

“You like it like this, Steve? You want it to burn a little? Or do you want my fingers, want me to get you sloppy loose and ready for me that way? Come on baby.” Bucky leans down, kisses his way up Steve’s knobby spine. “Come on, Steve, tell me what you want.”

“Just want you,” Steve whispers.

“I know, I know, you’re going to get me. I’m not going anywhere.” Bucky drips more lube down over Steve’s hole, presses two fingers in and moves them, gently, waiting until Steve starts making those impatient noises, the ones Bucky remembers from all the blow jobs, to pull his fingers out and roll the condom on, lining himself up and holding onto Steve’s hips.

He pushes in and pulls Steve back to meet him, grinding in once his hips are flush with Steve’s ass. He thrusts, deep, and Steve works himself back now, and there, there are those noises he's been waiting for.

“More, Bucky, more, come _on_ , please.” Steve’s whimpering, like he can’t help it.

“That’s it, baby, tell me what you like. Let me hear it, that’s it,” Bucky encourages, working his hips faster, holding onto Steve tighter so Steve doesn’t have to worry about balancing, able to take one hand off the bed and work his cock in counterpoint to Bucky’s thrusts.

It’s good, it’s so good. It’s Steve and he’s _wanted_ this, been waiting for this, been keeping things slow until Steve seemed ready. Steve’s back is arching into him when he bottoms out, so Bucky slides his hand around, covers Steve’s with his own.

“You gonna come for me, Stevie? Come for me, that’s it.” Bucky feels Steve clench down on his cock, feels Steve jerk a little, and Bucky slides his hand back around to grab at Steve’s hip again for the last half-dozen strokes, coming hard.

Bucky collapses, turning onto his back, careful not to land on Steve, and breathes heavily for a bit. He pulls the condom off and drops it on the floor. Steve nuzzles his way under Bucky’s arm, kisses at his side and scratches lightly at his belly. “Good?”

“Mmm,” he mumbles, riding the post-coital haze.

Steve stops scratching. “It. It was good ... right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs.

The scratching resumes. “Should clean you up.”

“Mmm. In a minute.”

“I got it,” Steve presses another kiss to Bucky’s side, wiggles out again. Bucky cracks his eyes open to watch him stepping into his boxers and closes them again when Steve heads across the hallway into the bathroom.

He loses track of time in the post-sex drift he’s got going on, but he’s sure it hasn’t been but a minute or two. So when he opens his eyes and Steve’s fully dressed, holding a damp wash cloth out to him, Bucky’s not sure what just happened.

“Whatcha doing there, Stevie?”

“I’m just gonna go ahead and go? I’m kinda worn out now, you know?” Steve smiles at Bucky, but it fades when Bucky doesn’t smile back.

Bucky sits up. “You’re just gonna go?”

“Um.” He looks down at the washcloth he’s still holding and squeezes it. A couple water droplets roll down Steve’s fingers. “Yeah? Did you want to go again or something?”

“What the hell, Steve?”

“What?” Steve argues. “We’re done, right? I was just gonna go so you could go to sleep or … do whatever.”

“You know what, Steve? You're right. I got an awful lot of _whatever_ to do right about now. You really should go.”

“Okay,” Steve says quietly. He nods once, then puts the cloth gingerly down on the edge of the nightstand. “You. Okay.”

Bucky runs his hands through his hair as he hears the front door click closed softly. He lays back down, carefully, feeling sore and used and a little dirty. He's had guys run off after an anonymous hook up; that's to be expected. But this is _Steve_. He'd thought they had something different.

* * *

Bucky shows up at Sam’s house with a box of donuts. “I’m not running.”

“Come on in.” Bucky eats a dozen donuts in silence for an hour while he tries to remember to breathe, and Sam breathes with him.

* * *

Bucky’s supposed to have an appointment with Steve to work on his sleeve. Steve said he thinks three more sessions and it’ll be done, but for a moment Bucky debates leaving it unfinished forever. He’s not sure if he’s going to tell Steve to go fuck himself or beg Steve to tell him what he did, but he figures either way, it’ll be better than this limbo. He doesn’t like leaving things unresolved anymore.

He walks into the shop. The bell over the door jingles, loud in the silence of the shop - Steve doesn’t even have ambient music running.

Steve turns to face him. He looks like shit. He’s wearing glasses. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.” he says quietly.

“You’re wearing glasses.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s usually contacts. People don’t trust artists who can’t see.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s seen the contacts, of course; somehow he just hadn’t connected that with glasses. Steve looks really good in glasses.

“I’ve got everything set up,” Steve says after a few long seconds, "if you want to get started.”

“Right.” Bucky walks over to the chair, and up close he can see the circles under Steve’s eyes. _Good_ , he thinks meanly, and then immediately feels bad. Steve spins the stool back to face Bucky, readying the gun. “Wait.”

Steve sits up, wary. “I won’t fuck it up, Bucky,” he says tiredly. “The tat, I mean. Obviously.”

“That’s not. I know that, Steve. But I can’t.” He’d known something wasn’t right last night. “You gotta tell me what I did. Did I hurt you or something? Because I didn’t mean to.”

Steve shakes his head.

“Did it just suck? Because we can work on that, sometimes it takes a while to find your groove.”

“What? No. It was good, it was really good. I thought it was good.”

“I thought so, too. But last time I was that desperate to get fucked, and then had pretty amazing sex with my boyfriend, I didn’t grab my clothes and run off right after, so I thought maybe my judgement was a little cloudy.”

“I told you,” Steve huffs, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I was worn out and I just wanted to get out of your way so I could get some sleep and you could get some sleep and ... Whatever.” He puts his glasses on the ink cart his glasses and rubs tiredly at his eyes. They’re a little red around the rims.

“You didn’t think maybe we coulda done that together?”

“No?”

“Thanks, great, that’s awesome.” Bucky sits up. “So what is this then?”

“No, I mean, you wanted me to? To stay?”

“Look, I’m not saying you have to spend the night or anything if you don’t want to, but jesus, Stevie, who’ve you been dating that kicked you out right after?”

Steve looks up suddenly, “Its not like. I just didn’t know. That you’d want me to spend the night.”

“Well. Now you do.”

Steve licks his lips and avoids Bucky’s gaze. He looks a little lost and very young. “I guess.”

“Can you tell me what that was all about, though? What got you all hot and needy last night, huh?”

“It’s stupid, can we just -”

“Steve, I don’t want to push here, but I kinda need to know.”

“Darcy said we should,” Steve mumbles.

Bucky blinks. “Well, full marks to her for getting me spectacularly laid, but the dismount fell apart pretty hard.”

Steve snorts out a pained-sounding laugh.

“Gonna need a little more to go on, Steve.”

“Look, we’ve been ...” Steve waves his hands, then crosses his arms again, hunched over a bit and still mostly staring at the ground. “We’ve been together or whatever for a … a while, right?”

Bucky nods.

“And she - god, this is so _stupid_. You were off talking to Clint and she said, you know, something about stamina, and I let it slip that we hadn’t, _you know_ , done that part yet, and she. She wasn’t being mean or anything, she was joking, really, but she said” - Steve makes his voice high and mocking - “‘Oh, you’re taking it _slow_! Steve, you little _romantic_ , you!’” and scowls.

“What’s wrong with being romantic?” Bucky asks, thinking maybe he’s starting to see the puzzle a little clearer.

“I don’t need romance, Bucky, it’s fine.”

“No one _needs_ romance, Steve, but that doesn’t mean it’s not nice sometimes.”

Steve shrugs dismissively. "Sure, but whatever." He uncrosses and recrosses his arms over his chest. "So are we good or … "

“Get over here,” Bucky holds out his arms for a hug, but Steve takes it one step farther and climbs up into the dental chair with him. Bucky tightens his arms and pulls, sitting back and taking Steve with him.

“I don’t think the chair was made for this,” Steve protests, but it doesn’t actually stop him from curling up in Bucky’s lap, releasing the catch and letting the chair recline.

“If it can hold my fat ass, yours ain’t gonna break it none, Stevie,” Bucky says into Steve’s hair.

* * *

Some time later, the bells over the shop door chime, and Bucky cranes his neck backward so as not to disturb Steve, snoring softly on his chest. Natasha pokes her head in and stage whispers, “Today’s appointments have all been cleared. This is good to see. I'll be sure to tell Peggy,” and closes the door behind her. Bucky’s not sure if she means the appointments or the fact that he and Steve are good again, but he hears the shop’s door lock turn, and he settles back in.

* * *

A few nights later, Bucky’s lying in bed watching the sky just begin to lighten outside his little window. There's nothing wrong, exactly, except for how Bucky’s got one arm wrapped around Steve’s shoulders and he's just decided that Steve’s soft snoring is adorable. He's fallen in love with a snorer.

He's _fallen in love_ with a snorer. This is not as shocking as he thinks it should be. It’s been pretty damn obvious for a while now.

He really needs to move his arm, pins and needles starting in his hand. He's pretty sure if he moves he'll wake Steve, and Steve will leave. It's gotten better since their fight; Steve no longer scurries off immediately after, but he still waits a little suspiciously, like if he takes too long, sprawled out on the bed panting and smiling and happy, Bucky will change his mind and tell him to go.

So Bucky just pulls him close, kisses him, fond and frustrated, until Steve’s settled. On the best nights Steve will kiss him back, run his hands up Bucky’s arms, over his shoulders, onto his softly padded chest, press his fingers In and watch as his skin turns pale to white to red and back until he sighs, "This is good," and drops asleep between one blink and the next.

* * *

It’s not for another three weeks that Steve looks up at Bucky from between his legs, kneeling in front of Steve’s ratty sofa, mouthing at Bucky’s inner thighs. “So hey,” Steve starts, fingers still sliding absently up and down Bucky’s cock. “This time, um, when you … finish, could you pull out first?”

"Sure, Steve." Bucky reaches down to cup Steve’s jaw in his big hand. "Shoulda told me if you didn’t wanna swallow, it’s cool, that’s good, yeah."

Steve shakes his head. “No, that’s, I like that. I just. This time I want you to...” Steve looks away for a second and then meets Bucky’s eyes. “I want you to come on my face.”

Bucky’s dick jumps at that. “Fuck. _Fuck_ , Steve, yeah.”

Steve smiles, but doesn’t look relaxed. “Thanks. And.”

"And? There’s more? Demanding, ain’tcha," Bucky teases, thumbs rubbing over Steve’s cheekbones, needing the distraction more than the banter, because _fuck_ , coming on Steve’s pretty little _face_.

"I’ve got my mouth real close to your balls right now, Buck. Probably you should be nice to me."

"You could maybe put your mouth a little closer to my balls if you want that whole face-"

Steve kneels up, covering Bucky’s mouth with one hand and muffling the end of Bucky’s sentence. Bucky, true to form, licks his hand. Steve bites him on the chest.

Steve takes his hand off Bucky’s dick, rubs at the bite mark, presses on Bucky’s nipple piercings. Gently, because they’re still a little new and Steve doesn't want to delay the healing process. “This time,” Steve presses again, looking into Bucky’s eyes, making Bucky pay attention. This is obviously important to him. “This time I want you to come on my face,” Steve pauses while Bucky nods.

“And then lick it off me.”

Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head as he nods even more enthusiastically, making his belly jiggle a little.

"Yeah?" Steve asks, slowly pulling his hand away from Bucky’s mouth, looking hypnotized by Bucky’s belly.

"Fuck, _yeah_ ," Bucky breathes.

* * *

Bucky wakes up to the sounds of Steve cooking and the smell of coffee. He's a little disoriented, because Steve never wakes up first.

“Damn, baby,” he says, wandering into the kitchen area in his boxers. “You keep feeding me like this and I’m going to end up the size of this table,” he jokes.

“Okay.”

Bucky huffs out a breath. “Okay?”

“Well, yeah.” Steve looks over his shoulder, then plates up some eggs. “I mean, I don’t. I just want you to be happy.”

“You know I’m not just keeping you around for your cooking, right?”  Bucky grabs Steve around his waist and reels him in close to gaze up at him.

Steve drops the plate gently on the table. “You’re not _not_ keeping me around for the cooking, though.” Steve hugs him back.

“True.” Bucky kisses the inside of Steve’s wrist.

“Yeah. I still have to finish your sleeve.” Steve smiles a little unsteadily before glancing at the clock. “Shit, appointment. Sorry,” and kisses him, absently before he’s out the door.

Bucky might prefer navigating actual, literal landmines to conversing with Steve first thing in the morning.

* * *

Steve’s been fidgety and distracted all night, pacing between the drafting table and the front desk, settling in at one only to stand and stalk back to the other. Finally Peggy intervenes, jingling her keys in his face.

"Maria will be here shortly. _You_ are utterly useless. Go home." She leans into Steve’s space and hisses, cutting her eyes toward Bucky so he knows he's supposed to overhear, " _Tell him_."

Bucky claps loudly, once. "Let's eat."

At the diner, Bucky orders a double portion of the special and Steve corrects the waitress, "Extra mashed potatoes, please, Ruby," and Bucky grins at him.

"Whatever has you all worked up can't be too bad then. Not if you're in an extra potatoes mood."

Steve blushes. "No, it's good. It's really good actually. " Steve pulls a wrinkled paper out of his pocket and smooths it out on the table. "I got invited out to this convention. It's pretty exclusive and invite-only and, well, it’s kind of a big deal. Tony said he'd pay the booth fee and everything and it'll be really good exposure. "

"Hey, Stevie, that's great!" Bucky kicks at him under the table while Ruby drops off their food.

Steve smiles politely and says “Thank you, ma’am,” and Bucky’s pretty sure if Ruby were several years younger he’d have to fight her for Steve’s affections. Bucky digs in. Steve picks at his patty melt. He never can eat when he's worked up about something.

"It lasts all weekend."

"These things usually do."

"It's in California. I mean it's work, so it's not like we'd. Obviously there's stuff to do out there, but, you know, we wouldn’t be together. Not that we need to be together all the time. But it’s kind of - "

"I've been to California,  Steve. Not that that I wouldn't want to go."

"Oh. Right, of course." Steve frowns. “For the tattoos.”

Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh. "To be there for _you_. But Peggy will probably need some help at the shop, right?"

"Yeah, yes. She will."

"So I'll stay here, hold down the fort. You go charm everyone with your insane talent."

Bucky can see the tips of Steve’s ears turn pink when he looks away. He flags down Ruby and asks for more green beans for Bucky. "It's not that I wouldn’t want you to come with me."

“I know. It's not that I would't want to go with you. But I think I can survive three days on my own, Steve." Bucky smiles.

Steve mutters something that sounds like "Of course you could." but Ruby sweeps back by with his green beans. And a large slice of chocolate cake, because Steve’s her favorite. She doesn’t even care that he slides it over to Bucky.  

“I like a man who can eat, too, sugar," she says with a wink.

Bucky almost chokes on his cake.

* * *

Bucky’s actually a little relieved Steve’s going to be gone. He's not been sleeping well, finding himself lost in bad memories more often lately. The entire month of August can just go straight to hell. He’d woken up two nights before Steve left with his fist already cocked, about two seconds from smashing Steve’s face in when he'd come back from the bathroom. Steve tried to calm him, but Bucky took off, wandering the streets and almost hoping trouble would come find him.

He stopped at a liquor store and stood in front of the bottles until he'd been asked if he'd found his lord and savior by two different street preachers, holding Bibles in one hand and AA pamphlets in the other. He left with a bag full of microwave burritos and two bottles of gin. He doesn’t even _like_ gin. It was a pretty terrible night, all told.

Steve leaves for the convention on Thursday, taking a cab to the airport because the thought of trying to get behind the wheel made Bucky’s stomach turn. He’d kind of wanted to give Steve one of those terrible send-offs like in old movies, but he settled for a quick blow job before the cab pulled up. As Steve drove off he muttered to himself, “So _romantic_ , god."

All told, he's feeling pretty damn useless, and pushing himself in his run isn't helping. Sam's trying not to hover, but he’s obviously concerned, and Bucky really should call him instead of eating ice cream right out of the tub. He doesn’t want to talk to Sam, though, who'd probably make him do something productive like confront his issues. Gently, maybe, but a punch in the gut is still a punch.

He wants Steve.

He goes to bed.

Saturday evening, Bucky begs off hitting ‘80s night at Stark’s with Clint in favor of consuming an entire Italian restaurant alone in his bedroom.

Steve calls him, “just to check in. Sorry it’s so late, I just got back to my hotel.” He’s a little breathless, and Bucky can just see it, his smile, the way his cheeks flush.

Bucky works it out from Steve that he isn’t just networking, he's getting a lot of attention, and he'll have a four-page spread in a tattoo magazine soon. "That's my boy."

“It's not really that big a deal."

"Bullshit."

Steve laughs. “Okay, okay, It's a really big deal. Hey, you okay? You’re. You seem kinda quiet.”

“Yeah, babe, I’m good. Really full, kinda don’t even want to move right now.”

“...Oh.”

“Oh, really, Steve? I could maybe be persuaded to tell you a little bit more about it. You know, if you might be interested in hearing about that kind of thing.”

“Come on, Bucky, you know I’m not good at that stuff,” Steve defers, and he’s not lying. He's really not good at dirty talk. Steve’s a lot better with actions. But Bucky can hear that his voice is a little choked. Steve wants to do this.

Bucky props himself up against the wall that serves as his headboard, causing him to burp a little. He’s about to apologize when he hears Steve’s little “Oh, god.”

"Yeah? You got yourself all worked up there, Steve?”

Steve takes a deep breath, his words coming out in a rush. “Okay, yeah. Um, I’m wearing boxers, you know and - and I can feel - um.” and it’s possibly the least sexy thing Steve’s ever said to him.

Bucky smiles, so damn in love with this little dork he can’t stand it. “Hmm. Maybe you should just listen for a while then?”

“Oh. I could do that.”

“Take off your boxers, babe. Get those out of the way for me.”

There’s a rustling noise and then Steve’s back on the line, “Okay, I did.” He’s breathing a little heavy, nervous or turned on or both.

“Mmm, good,” Bucky says. “I found the cookies you left for me, Steve.”

Steve whimpers. “Which - which ones?”

“All of them, babe. Wanted to see if I couldn’t save them ‘til you come home. But I started thinkin’ about you, about maybe you feeding them to me.”

“Yeah?” Steve whispers.

“They were so good, Steve. Wanted you on top of me, holding it out for me, letting me take it from you, suck on your fingers a bit. You like that? You do, makin’ those little noises.” Bucky bites at his lip ring, just listening for a moment. “Yeah, just like that. You getting close? Ended up eating all them, Steve. I’m just so full, so big and heavy right now. You should see.”

“Want to.”

“I know you do, baby. Want you to.” He hears Steve’s breathing hitch, little moans on each exhale, bitten off like he’s holding himself back. Bucky wants to give him that one last push. “I ate _all of them_ , Steve. You proud of me, baby?”

And that’s it, that does it, Steve’s quiet little grunt on “So proud, _Bucky_ ” on the other end of the line. On the other side of the country.

He waits for Steve to come back to himself a little bit, but Steve beats him to it, asking, “You gonna be able to sleep tonight?”

“Better if you were here,” he admits. “Gonna be a long day.”

“I know, Bucky. Me too.”

* * *

Bucky’s not being entirely careful about what he’s drinking and how much or how fast. Most importantly, he’s not focusing on why he’s drinking. Nope. All he knows is Steve is busy organizing all the capital-I Ideas and scribbles he brought home from the convention, Clint helping him select the best of his portfolio for an upcoming magazine spread. Stark is here and there’s booze constantly and he does not have any reason to think about anything at all, at all, _at all_.

He keeps trying to get someone to tell him why Steve’s so bad at “the talking … to me ... real good. He wants things.”

Tony nods sincerely. “Steve should have things.”

“I know. I wanna give ‘em to ‘im, too. But he won’t com-comminocat. Communicate.” Bucky smiles proudly.  

“Gotta communicate.” Tony agrees. Tony’s great, Tony understands. “Pepper said. Hey. Tell him Pepper said so!”

“I wanna just tell him I said so!” Bucky insists, and lists sideways. “Should be enough, but _no_. Who fucked with Stevie, Tony? Wanna go back in time and bust some heads.”

But then Tony got to talking about paradoxes and how maybe that would mean never ending up with Steve at all. Bucky doesn’t follow the science stuff too well, not at his current level of drunkenness, but when Tony says that, he has to call Bruce over to hold Bucky back from punching things.

“Sorry, Bruce.”

“It’s okay. Paradoxes make me angry too.”

And then suddenly Steve’s there, right in front of him. “Steve!” Bucky grins, and then stumbles, trips, lands heavily on the little couch he and Tony had been sharing. “Oh, hey. You okay there? Need to sit down, Steve.”

“Let’s go sit outside, though, okay?” Steve says, and outside sounds like a good idea.

Bucky allows himself to be led to the outside, Steve’s cool little hands on Bucky’s sides, steering him through the crowd and feeling so good on his overheated skin. He stumbles through the doorway, already trying to light a cigarette and failing, dropping down to sit on the curb. “Is it wet?” The marquee lights are flashing too much. Bucky doesn’t like it.

“It’s been raining. So, yeah, a little bit. You just take some deep breaths, though, okay?” Steve holds his hand steady and then just takes the lighter out of Bucky’s hand to flick it himself, holding it to the tip of Bucky’s cigarette.

Bucky inhales deeply. “Polite.” Steve’s not supposed to be here. He wouldn’t have gotten this drunk in front of Steve.

“Why’d you come get me, Steve?” Bucky feels queasy, takes another drag.

“Bruce called and said you needed me. Drink some water,” Steve holds a bottle out to him. He doesn’t want it, but he chugs it since Steve asked him to.

“Always need you, Steve. Love you.” And then Bucky pukes in the gutter.

“Jesus, Bucky!” Steve sounds shocked. Maybe he’s angry.

“Fuck, fuck, Steve, didn’t mean it, didn’t mean to,” Bucky slurs. Everything’s wrong, but Bucky’s head is spinning, his stomach is spinning, the whole world is spinning. He’s so drunk, he’s just so drunk.

Bucky feels Steve put his cold hand on the back of his neck. “Feels good, Steve.”

“Yeah, Bucky,” Steve says and he sounds wrong, but Bucky’s too drunk to figure out why.

“Come on, move down a little, that’s it.” Steve holds a new bottle of crisp, cold water to Bucky’s lips, letting him take little sips and spit.

“You good now? Help me get you home. Your home."

Bucky groans, but tries to help Steve when he clasps both hands around Bucky’s wrist and braces himself, planting his feet and yanking to help pull Bucky to his feet. Steve skids across the wet concrete a little as Bucky stands, wobbly, and he feels the need to apologize again. They were not yet at the less-fun bodily fluids portion of their relationship. “Di’n’t mean it, Stevie.”

“Yeah. I know, Buck.”

* * *

Bucky wakes up late in the afternoon, still dressed except for his shoes, and feels like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack. That's before the hangover really hits.

* * *

Steve’s not at the shop, and Pepper tells him to just go on home. She’s kind about it, which is better than he expected from her, but he really needs to get to Steve, talk to him, explain and apologize. Peggy tells him Steve caught a summer cold. Tony tells him it was from sitting in the rainy night air and dragging Bucky’s sorry ass home.

Bruce tries to tell everyone that colds don’t work like that. Steve had said he was probably coming down with it anyway, jet lag and exhaustion from the convention; he was due for a cold and no one can deny that’s true. But Bucky feels everyone else blaming him, the shop feeling colder and less welcoming around him already.

He buys chicken soup and takes the bus to Steve’s place so that when he gets there the soup is still warm. He presses on the buzzers for all twelve apartments until the security door unlocks, not wanting to risk Steve not letting him in.

Bucky leans against the doorjamb and knocks, hoping Steve will be too polite to just ignore him now that he’s inside and his knocking could disturb the neighbors. He's happy to be proven right when Steve answers the door, red-nosed and stuffy, smelling like Vicks. He's wearing his glasses and an oversized shirt, pajama pants pooling over his toes.

“I brought soup.” Bucky rattles the bag and straightens.

“You shouldn't have.”

"But I did," Bucky says.

Steve sighs. “Come in if you want. If I'm contagious you probably have it by now anyway.”

Bucky walks in, grabs a bowl from the kitchen cabinet and pours the soup in. He hands it to Steve and sits carefully on the sofa, keeping his distance.

Steve stirs the soup, pulling up a spoonful and letting it drip slowly back. He lets out a little dry-sounding laugh. "I'm not really up for much right now, Bucky, but - "

Bucky cuts him off. “Fuck you, that’s not. I wanted to talk to you. Clarify. I didn't mean -”

“I know!” Steve shouts, startling Bucky and dissolving into a coughing fit.  “Fuck, I know, okay?” he says when he’s recovered, taking a few sips from a water bottle he has, but ignoring the soup. “I got it. Everyone says stuff they don't mean. We're good. I’d thought, you know, whatever. But I know what this is.”

“You don’t.”

“Fuck you, I’m not stupid.”

“No, shut up, just shut up for a minute. I didn't mean to get so drunk and I didn't mean for you to see me like that and I didn't mean to hurl all over like a fuckin sorority girl. The only thing I did mean was that I do always need you. And it wasn't the ideal way of saying it, but I do love you.”

Steve pushes himself to his feet. “Don't. Lying when you’re drunk is one thing. Doing it on purpose is just. You’ve never been an asshole before, Bucky. Don’t start now.”

“I'm not, Steve. I mean it.”

“Look, thanks for the soup. You should go.”

“Come on, Steve.”

“What, you wanna take it with you?” Steve glares at him, and Bucky’s hand flies to his stomach. He might just throw up all over again.

Bucky reaches for Steve, but he jerks away, almost falling into the door he flinches so hard.  “Just _go_.”

* * *

Steve ignores Bucky the next day when he comes into shop.

Bucky didn't have anything else to do after his run, and he was hoping maybe Steve would listen to him if he was feeling better. No such luck.

Tony's being extra obnoxious in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood, though it's clear he doesn't know exactly why everything is so tense, and even Bruce snapped at him a few times.

Bucky’s hands are shaking so he’s not helping with anything, mostly just moving things from one pile to another. He leaves after about an hour. When he calls Sam, Sam takes him to the gym for boxing.

* * *

The next day he doesn't feel any better and he also can't lift his arms. He stays in bed.

* * *

He sees Steve at the next Strike Team Delta show, but Steve keeps his body hidden between Clint and Coulson and even though Clint keeps making gestures his way, Coulson catches Bucky’s eyes and shakes his head slightly.

Bruce just holds his hands out in front of him, palms up, and Tony says he's Sweden.

“Switzerland,” Bruce corrects.

Tony argues, and Bruce argues back until Tony finally claims victory because he’s pretty sure the citizens of Sweden aren’t taking sides, either. Bucky bangs his head on the table and orders another beer.

* * *

Bucky arrives early to his next appointment for more work on his sleeve and Steve makes eye contact for the first time in eight days.

“Pepper says I'm being unfair,” Steve says.

“Pepper’s a smart woman.”

Steve nods once. “She doesn’t do it often anymore, she’s too busy and says she never had the passion, but she's a hell of an artist, so if you don't want me to finish…”

“Steve,” Bucky sighs. “It’s your work. I want you to finish it. You're the one who called it quits, not me.”

“Right,” Steve nods, swallows. “Right, so I know it's my fault. That's what I’m saying.”

“Steve. It's not all your fault. I should have, hell, I should have done a lot of things. I should have told you well before then how I felt.”

“Too late now, though,” Steve sighs, washing up.

“What? No it isn’t.”

“Yeah, it is. Doesn't matter now that it’s done and over.” Steve sits on the stool next to the chair.

“Steve, you can't just keep assuming you know what everyone is thinking all the time. You get it into your head that you know best, and you just. You don't, okay?"

"I know what you said," Steve argues, obstinately.  

"Yeah, and you just decided you know it all, didn't you. Stubborn little shit.” Bucky sits on the chair and wheels Steve over to him. "So I said I love you for the first time while I was shitfaced. I'm not the first guy to pull that asshole move. And then I puked on your shoes."

"You missed my shoes," Steve says.

"That's not the fucking point, Steve!"

"Then what is? What is the point of all this?" Steve looks so lost in that moment that Bucky just deflates.

"The point is that this doesn't have to be over because of a misunderstanding. Not if we don't want it to be. You don't want it to be, right?"

Steve shakes his head slowly.

Bucky sighs. “Then how about I apologize to you for being a complete douche nozzle, and you apologize to me for avoiding me for the last week, and we both forgive each other and call it even.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, apology brownies wouldn't be overkill.” Bucky jokes.

Steve nods. “Yeah, I can do -”

“Steve. Steve. I was kidding.”

“Okay, so what do you _want_ , then, Bucky?”

“Just don’t shut me out like that, okay? I know it was a shitty thing to do, and I hope I don’t do anything stupid again, but I’m gonna. That’s kinda how this shit works, Steve. That’s relationships. That’s love.”

Steve fairly launches himself at Bucky, wrapping his arms around Bucky and burrowing into his chest. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“You know you don't have anything to be sorry for, punk.”

“Sorry,” Steve whispers again, trying to work himself closer to Bucky.  

Bucky let's him wiggle around til he's comfortable. They’ll work on all of this communication bullshit later. Right now he’s just happy to have this again, relieved and exhausted, sitting in the chair with Steve between his legs, resting against him.

"You know," he says into Steve’s hair, "if we bought a dental chair for your apartment, we could probably never have a fight again.”

* * *

Another little piece of the Steve puzzle resolves itself, lodging in Bucky’s mind when he excuses himself from a bullshit session with Clint and Tony and gives Steve a playful little push on the way to the bar. Bucky’s full of beer and warmth and happiness. Steve pinches Bucky’s love handles in retribution. He wraps his arms around Bucky, pressing into him from behind, working his hands under Bucky’s shirt to stroke along his waist band,  flicking at the button barely hanging on to hold his jeans together.

Bucky laughs, “I love you, you kinky little shit. Take me home.”

Steve’s quiet when they walk until he finally stops and looks at Bucky. “We’re not kinky.”

“Steve.” Bucky stops, too, turns around to grab Steve’s hands after a quick scan of the street. “Steve, you literally sat on my dick and fed me strawberries until I couldn’t move last night. We are in fact the very definition of kinky.”

“But, no.” Steve wrinkles his nose. “That’s not. You liked that. Didn’t you like that?”

“Of course I liked it. Where’d you get the idea that kink was about not liking it?”

Steve shrugs and they start walking again. “You know, it just doesn’t look like those people are having fun.”

“Which people?”

“Kinky people.”

"I don’t know,” Bucky pulls on their joined hands. “Clint and Coulson look pretty happy. You looked like you were having fun when you came all over my big-ass belly last night.”

“That’s different,” Steve insists. “I already said I liked the strawberry thing." Steve pauses, getting a wicked look in his eye. "Next time, peaches. They’re just at the end of the season, so they’ll be juicier.”

“Steve, god, wait til we get home, damn.”

Steve grins at him. “Because you like that.”

“Hell yes, I like that.”

“And it’s kinky,” Steve says slowly.

Bucky pulls him in for a kiss. Steve tucks his hand into Bucky’s waistband and squeezes gently. “I like it and you like it and that” - Bucky kisses him again - “is what matters.”

When they get home, Bucky takes his time, strips Steve slowly and carefully, kissing him just about everywhere, and fucks him slowly. He’s thinking maybe Steve hasn’t had enough of that before now.  

* * *

“I gotta stop at my place tonight, babe,” Bucky says into Steve’s ear at the diner. Natasha's across from them, discussing menswear with Maria and Peggy. Steve’s finishing his grilled cheese, and he just ordered Bucky another one. “I don’t think I can get another wear out of this shirt." He wrinkles his nose. "Don’t fill me up too much.”

“Yet,” Steve says levelly.

“Yet,” Bucky agrees. “I don’t think there’s any food at mine, though. Maybe Thor’s pickled herring?”

“Bucky, ew.” Steve laughs. “Pickled herring is not a sex food.” Steve pauses, then pushes his plate away from himself and turns his body more toward Bucky’s. “I have food.”

“Sex food?” Bucky jokes, until he gets a look at the serious face Steve’s making. “Okay, we can go back to your place after we stop at mine?”

“No, I.” Steve shakes his head. “What if you didn’t have a place? I mean, what if your place was my place?”

Bucky feels heat bloom in his chest. “Yeah?”

“If you want?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Steve says he likes everything they do, but Bucky knows he likes riding him best. And Bucky is A-OK with that. Bucky’s happy to have Steve on top of him, carefree and wild, petting and stroking and rubbing at Bucky’s belly, pulling on his nipple piercings at the same time as he can control the depth and pace. Steve’s bossy in bed, now that he’s starting to really believe that he likes it, he wants Steve to tell him what to do, and then actually do what he's told. Now that he’s stopped looking at Bucky like he’s going to use it against him.

And sometimes when Steve’s on top, he leans down, rubs his flat stomach against Bucky’s round one and he holds his wrists down, bites at his little double chin, and demands, “Now, Bucky, come on, _come on_ , fuck, _now_.”

But also with Steve on top, Bucky doesn’t have to worry about Steve getting crushed up underneath him. Bucky’s happy with his body, especially since Steve seems to be so happy with his body, if the way Steve’s always leaving his hand on him, hugging him, invading his space to touch and rub at him is anything to go by. But Bucky is also aware that he weighs twice as much as Steve. (Actually _twice as much_ , he’d had his physical not too long ago and dropped it into the conversation. Steve closed his eyes, grabbed Bucky’s hand and dragged him into the stockroom, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, gonna climb you like a _tree_.” Tony couldn’t stop staring at the hickeys all over Bucky’s neck, and called Steve Count Von Count for a week.)

When Steve pulls him onto his bed, pulls at Bucky’s shoulders until Bucky’s looming over him, Steve wiggles until he can wrap his legs around Bucky’s hips, arching up and rubbing against him. Bucky’s distracted, making sure to keep his weight on his elbows and knees. His belly’s still heavy between them, but at least he knows Steve can breathe.

Steve’s breathing rather a lot, actually, making all kinds of moans and panting between sucking hickies onto Bucky’s chest. Noisy little fucker. It’s amazing.

“You like marking me up, babe?” he laughs.

Steve pulls back, looking unamused and then bites at Bucky’s left arm. “Now why would you think that?”

Bucky laughs again, shifting all his weight onto one elbow, reaching down to pump Steve’s cock a few times.  

“Bucky, come on, come on, I wanna feel you,” Steve runs his hands down his back, pulling, trying to get Bucky to lie down on top of him.

“You wanna feel me, come on, let go, let me get you on top.” Bucky tries to roll over without falling off the bed, but Steve stops him.

“No, no. I want it like this.”

“Steve, I … Are you sure?” Bucky looks pointedly down the line of their bodies, willing Steve to get it.

“Bucky. Get your fat ass on top of me and let me really feel it while you screw me through the mattress.”

 _Oh._ “Been talking to Coulson?”

“Shut up, oh my god.”

* * *

Bucky’s moving in with Steve when Steve finds the pictures.

It’s not that Bucky has a lot of stuff, but Tony overheard them discussing it, and in true Tony fashion decided to help. Which is how pretty much everyone in the downtown music scene showed up in and around Bucky’s basement apartment. There’s no way there’s enough room for everyone, and honestly, Bucky’s got like three boxes and a duffel bag, so most everyone just heads out to the club, leaving Steve and Bucky to “say one last goodbye to the place where it all started,” Clint says. They take off, Tony and Clint arguing about where, in fact, it all started and which of them can take all the credit.

Bucky promises Jane and Darcy he’d clean up before he left, and Peggy and Sam stay behind, because they’ve seen Bucky clean before and “He just can’t be trusted, Steve.”

They order pizzas, and Bucky lets Sam answer the door while he looks around for Steve, and sees one knobby knee through the doorway into his old bedroom.

“Steve, pizza’s here,” he calls out, walking into the room, catching Steve holding the spilled contents of an old shoebox in his hands.

“Sorry, Bucky. I came in to double check, and this was in the closet and the lid came off and it spilled and I wasn’t trying to look,” Steve rushes to explain.

“S’okay, Steve.” Bucky glances down at the pictures of him from his last post. He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as it used to. It’s still awful, but Bucky’s hands are mostly stable.

“One of the guys in my unit had this girl back home who was all into scrapbooking. She made him take pictures all the damn time to send to her. She’d pretty them up and send the books to the guys’ families, because she fuckin ran out of room for the things in her own house. She sent a couple out to me, too, but I … lost them. ‘Cept for those.”

Bucky gestures at the snapshots, one of him walking guard, one of him playing pool. And one of him shirtless, tanned and toned and tight, reaching behind himself into the engine of a humvee he’d been fixing. His abs were ripped, his arms defined, his face far more angular. He looked good. He remembers how hard it was to stay looking like that, always so careful about what he ate, always struggling to keep that physique. It was a constant challenge for him.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks softly, startling Bucky out of his thoughts. Bucky doesn’t talk about it with Steve. Not the army, not what happened, not why he took the discharge. Steve doesn’t need to know. Bucky’s a little afraid of what might happen if Steve ever finds out.

“Yeah, Stevie. I’m good. Pizza’s here.” Bucky ruffles Steve’s hair and glances back at the pictures before leaving the empty room.

Bucky’s quiet for the rest of the evening, picking at his dinner and leaving Sam and Peggy to carry the conversation. When they leave after an awkward forty-five minutes, Sam gives him a pointed look, pointlessly double-checking that they both have his number.

Bucky and Steve lock up at Jane and Darcy’s, walk the couple of blocks back to Steve’s - their - apartment. They silently agree to just go to bed once they get home. Steve heads into the bathroom to clean up, and he checks and rechecks all the doors and windows. It’s a one-room apartment; there’s one of each.

Bucky lays down in the bed, pulling Steve to him in the dark, tucks him up next to him, and buries his nose in Steve’s hair. Steve’s out almost as soon as he lies down, after a soft “love you” and a moment of quiet snuffling. Steve had mastered the trick of sleeping fast and hard wherever he collapsed, especially if Bucky was there. But he'd never gone to sleep fast or easy. Besides, it was probably better if he stayed awake tonight anyway, or risk waking from a nightmare having tossed Steve halfway across the room again.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he hears Steve wake up, whine a little, and then he hears the sheets rustle. Bucky’s not in bed. He’s sitting at the window, smoking. At least, there’s a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, trailing smoke out the cracked window. It might be his first, it might be his fifth. He doesn’t really remember. He’s not supposed to smoke inside, but he’d wanted to be able to see Steve, keep him in his sightlines. It’s important to know where Steve is.

Steve sits up slowly, obviously trying not to startle him.

“Buck?” Steve whispers.

“I’m all right, Steve. Go back to bed.”

“I’m still in bed,” Steve says, petulantly.

“Punk.”

“Yeah.” Steve crawls around the bed, dragging his quilt with him. He shuffles over, shivering a little while he waits for him to butt the cigarette out, settles down into his lap and wraps his arms around his back.

Bucky stiffens a little, sits up straighter, stupidly tries to minimize the sheer amount of him pressing into Steve.

Steve frowns, “Bucky?” Steve leans back, trying to catch his eyes, but he turns his head away.

“Just. You know, that’s the guy you should be with.”

“Who?” Steve’s genuinely confused and tries to look out the window behind him until Bucky shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m still kinda asleep here, I get one stupid comment.”

“Going all in this early?”

“Jerk.” Steve runs his hands down his sides. Bucky tries to shrug him off, but Steve’s determined. Too late to do any good now, anyway.

“I don’t want that guy, though.” Steve says into his collarbone, breathing right where Bucky’s been thinking about getting it inked. Something little, maybe script, not matching Steve’s but similar.

“Pfft.” Bucky blows him off.

“No, listen,” and Steve slides back a bit, adjusting his position so he's fully straddling Bucky so his legs are up over Bucky’s thighs and pulls his face down to his level. “I love you, and I’ll love you if you’re ninety pounds or nine hundred pounds or anywhere in between. But I’ll be honest. I’m most attracted to you like this. just like this.” Steve grabs Bucky’s belly and jiggles it a little bit. “You’re warm and soft and comfortable.”

Steve takes a deep breath before he goes on. “And okay, your washboard abs were nice to look at, yeah, but that’s because _you’re_ nice to look at. That body doesn’t make me want to lay on top of it or put my head on those hard thighs when we rest or. I mean, if you’re bony and I’m bony when we fuck we might start a fire rubbing together like that.”

That startles a laugh out of Bucky, mostly just a huff of air from his nose, but something.

“Okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods.

“Come on then. Back to bed, I’m freezing.” Steve untangles himself and stands up, waiting patiently while Bucky pushes himself to his feet, grunts a little bit at the effort.

“You’re always freezing.” Bucky grouses.

“Not when you’re in bed with me,” Steve says pointedly, gesturing at Bucky’s side of the bed, and then following him in, laying down right on top of him and snuggling into Bucky’s chest, wiggling his hips into his belly under the quilt.

Bucky wraps him up and settles in, even though he knows he’ll be too hot in about fifteen minutes, kisses Steve on the top of his head and waits for Steve to fall back asleep. It doesn’t take long.

* * *

They’re back at the diner, with Pepper somehow still poised and put together post-show, not even wrinkled, with Tony and Bruce composing an entire album from how the peeling formica sounds when they slide various cutlery across it. (Bucky doesn’t get it at all; Steve appreciates the artistic intent if not the product.)

Clint is all hyperactive post-show adrenaline, pinballing between everyone for about a sentence and a half until Coulson finally grabs him around the waist and makes him sit and eat and "be still, sweet boy."

Bucky’s sprawled out on one side of a booth, across from Natasha, having had a good couple of weeks. He’s putting away a burger or two and a couple orders of fries with Steve smushed up between him and the booth’s wall. He spreads his legs and takes up more room in the booth, pressing into Steve a little more.

Steve smiles at him, pausing in his conversation with Natasha - “No, look, there’s a place for distortion and when it’s used properly it’s great, but fuzzy guitars are so overdone, Tash, Cannonball is already a song, it’s a great song, but it’s already a song. Don’t write another Cannonball. Don’t do this to me.” He turns sideways and throws his legs up over Bucky’s big thighs and curls into him, pulling Bucky’s arms over his shoulders, leaning against Bucky’s chest, stealing a fry with one hand and playing with the hem of Bucky’s tight t shirt with the other.

The longer they sit and the more relaxed Bucky gets, his buzz mellowed out by the food, and he’s sleepy and warm with Steve practically on top of him now. Steve’s fingers have strayed farther under the hem of Bucky’s t shirt and he’s got his whole hand now pressing just slightly on Bucky’s full belly.

“We gotta go,” Steve says suddenly, swinging his legs back down and pushing Bucky out of the booth.

* * *

Steve gets Bucky home, pushing him through the door. “But _Steve_ ,” Bucky whines, planting his feet and holding on to the doorjamb, as if Steve could really make him move if he didn’t want to. “There was pie, Steve! _Pie_!” Steve’s laughing, wedging his shoulder against Bucky’s back, prying his fingers off the woodwork, making Bucky laugh, too.

“I’ll buy you three pies tomorrow, Ruby likes me, she’ll make more. Go. _Inside_.”

“Maybe I don’t want pie tomorrow. Maybe I want pie _now_ , you ever think of that?” Bucky’d been beyond full at the diner, but the walk, little pauses here and there for Steve to pull him down for a kiss, bite lightly at Bucky’s jawline, rub his hands along his pecs, had done him some good, settled his stomach a bit. He was still full, just not unbearably so, able to have a little fun with Steve.

“Bucky, so help me,” Steve drops his hands to Bucky’s sides, digs his fingers in just once, “If you don’t get in there and get naked and get your dick inside me right now...” Steve pushes his fingers more firmly.

Bucky drops his arms and turns to face Steve. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I think you know what you need to do then,” Steve says sternly, but cracks up when Bucky flees for the bedroom, stripping his shirt off on the way.

Steve ambushes him when he comes closer to the bed, grabs him and pushes him down on the bed with him. Bucky lets out an “oof”, because sure, Steve’s aware that comparatively speaking he’s pretty tiny, but sometimes he forgets how damn bony he is.

“Sorry," he says sheepishly, trying to do a little push-up to get off Bucky. It’s not working all that well, with Bucky’s full gut between them still. Steve moves his hands to Bucky’s shoulders, runs his fingers across Bucky’s collar bones, and Bucky lets him sit up a bit, relieves some of the pressure on his belly.

"I need to ink you, right here," he says absently. He slithers on down, though, resting his cheek on Bucky’s stomach, reaching down to pinch at Bucky’s thigh. “So I'm thinking I’m gonna lay right here for a little while. Listen to this.” He rubs idly while he lays there, occasionally stroking Bucky’s cock, mostly just touching him. Bucky closes his eyes, full and warm with Steve’s head on his belly. He pinches at Bucky’s nipple, tugs on the barbell there, his moan echoing Bucky’s.

“Nope, I’m gonna blow you now,” Steve says conversationally, and leans down to lick at the head of Bucky’s dick. Steve’s hands are squeezing Bucky’s thighs, and Steve pulls off. “Bucky, just. There’s so _much_ ,” and then he sucks Bucky’s cock back into his mouth. He reaches back and presses, just a little, at Bucky’s hole, and Bucky could hold out, he could make this last, but he doesn’t want to.  

Bucky holds Steve’s shoulders and says, “Now, Steve, baby, I'm gonna," so Steve can pull off if he wants to. He comes and Steve lets it hit him in the chest, surges up to kiss Bucky, hot and filthy and still rubbing at his stomach.

“Gonna come on you now, okay,” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s hand and wrapping his fingers around his cock, thrusting his hips into Bucky’s fist more than Bucky’s actually pumping it. Bucky’s content to lay back and let Steve take the lead here, still pretty full and now sleepy from his orgasm.

“Right here, right on this, all over it, mine, so big, Bucky, _oh_.” Steve finishes on a sigh, collapsing down and rubbing his come into Bucky’s belly with one hand.

* * *

They’re at a show, Coulson’s pet metal-piano kids again. They’ve added a girl with a laptop dropping these ridiculous drum beats in, giving the whole scene a heavier, more cohesive sound. Bucky’s next to Steve, sharing a beer. Steve keeps turning to look up at him, let him in on little inside bits of musical knowledge and trivia.

Every time Bucky leans down, putting his ear closer to Steve’s mouth, he makes eye contact with this guy. He’s a pretty good-looking guy, objectively speaking, but the way he’s raking his gaze over Steve, looking at Bucky like he’s about to, to what? Challenge his claim?

He needs a drink, just a water or something, because this basement is suffocating, but he doesn’t want to leave Steve, and Steve’s having too much fun watching the band play. He trusts Steve, of course, but there’s just something about that guy.

He moves back, steps behind Steve, planting himself firmly, all wide legs and thick thighs, holding Steve from behind now. He leans down and kisses Steve. It’d be a dick move, maybe, if Bucky didn’t know how much Steve loves this. Steve leans into him, pressing his back into his belly, and he can feel Steve’s deep inhale from where he has his arms wrapped around Steve’s waist.  

Steve folds his arms over top of Bucky’s, tugs a little to get him to bend down. “Finally noticed that guy, did you?” He’s laughing.

Bucky leans back, squeezing and lifting Steve off his feet for a second. “You absolute shit!”

“You love me,” Steve says confidently.

“Damn straight I do.”

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

>  you can come join me at my [tumblr ](http://essieincinci.tumblr.com/)to see if I ever decide to play in this universe some more. 


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